807-73 
6909 


Sanborn 

Wit  of  women 


\G*  ,V 


"The  Wit  of  Women,"  by  Miss  Kate  Sanborn,  [Fu\.k 
&  Wagnalls,]  proves  that  the  authoress  is  one  of  those 
rare  women  who  are  gifted  with  a  sense  of  humor.  For- 
tunately  for  her,  the  female  sense  of  humor,  when  it  does 
exist,  is  not  affected  by  such  trifles  as  "  chestnuts."  There- 
fore, women  will  read  with  pleasure  Miss  Sanborn's 
choice  collection  of  these  dainties.  There  are,  however, 
many  new  anecdotes  in  Miss  Sanborn's  collection,  and, 
taken  as  a  whole,  it  may  fairly  be  said  to  establish  the 
fact  that  there  have  been  feminine  wits  not  inferior  to  the 
best  of  the  opposite  sex. 


THE  WIT  OF  WOMEN 


FO  UR  TH  EDITION 


NEW  YORK  (04  D     \  \J 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

LONDON  AND  TORONTO 

1895 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


Miss  Addie  Boyd,  of  the  Cincinnati 
"Commercial,"  and  Miss  Anna  M.  T. 
Rossiter,  alias  Lilla  M.  Cushman,  of  the 
Meriden  "Recorder,"  will  probably  rep- 
resent the  gentler  sex  in  the  convention 
of  paragraphers  which  meets  next  month. 
Tney  are  a  pair  o'  graphic  writers  and 
equal  to  the  best  in  the  profession.— 
[Waterloo  Observer. 


INTEODUOTIOK 


IT  is  refreshing  to  find  an  unworked  field  all  ready  for 
harvesting. 

While  the  wit  of  men,  as  a  subject  for  admiration  and 
discussion,  is  now  threadbare,  the  wit  of  women  has  been 
almost  utterly  ignored  and  unrecognized. 

With  the  joy  and  honest  pride  of  a  discoverer,  I  present 
the  results  of  a  summer's  gleaning. 

And  I  feel  a  cheerful  and  Colonel  Sellers-y  confidence  in 
the  success  of  the  book,  for  every  woman  will  want  to  own 
it,  as  a  matter  of  pride  and  interest,  and  many  men  will 
buy  it  just  to  see  what  women  think  they  can  do  in  this 
line.  In  fact,  I  expect  a  call  for  a  second  volume  ! 

KATE  SANBOKN. 
HANOVEK,  N.  EL,  August,  1885. 


MY  thanks  are  due  to  so  many  publishers,  magazine 
editors,  and  personal  friends  for  material  for  this  book, 
that  a  formal  note  of  acknowledgment  seems  meagre  and 
unsatisfactory.  Proper  credit,  however,  has  been  given 
all  through  the  volume,  and  with  special  indebtedness  to 
Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  and  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  of 
New  York,  and  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  of  Boston. 
I  add  sincere  gratitude  to  all  who  have  so  generously 
contributed  whatever  was  requested. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

THE  MELANCHOLY  TONE  OF  WOMEN'S  POETRY — PUNS,  GOOD 
AND  BAD — EPIGRAMS  AND  LACONICS — CYNICISM  OF  FRENCH 
WOMEN — SENTENCES  CRISP  AND  SPARKLING 13 

CHAPTER   II. 
HUMOR  OF  LITERARY  ENGLISHWOMEN 32 

CHAPTER   III. 
FROM  ANNE  BRAUSTREET  TO  MRS.  STOWE 47 

CHAPTER  IV. 
"  SAMPLES"  HERE  AND  THERE 67 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  BRACE  OF  WITTY  WOMEN 85 

CHAPTER  VI. 
GINGER-SNAPS 103 

CHAPTER  VII. 
PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY 122 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
HUMOROUS  POEMS 150 

CHAPTER  IX. 

GOOD-NATURED  SATIRE   179 

« 

CHAPTER  X. 

PARODIES — REVIEWS — CHILDREN'S  POEMS— COMEDIES  BY  WOMEN 

— A  DRAMXTIC  TRTFF,E— A  STRING  OF  FIRECRACKERS..     .  195 


TO 


G.  W.  B. 
In  (grateful 


"  There  was  in  her  soul  a  sense  of  delicacy  mingled  with  that  rarest  of 
qualities  in  woman — a  sense  of  humor,"  writes  Richard  Grant  White  in 
"  The  Fate  of  Mansfield  Humphreys.'1''  I  hate  noticed  that  when  a 
novelist  sets  out  to  portray  an  uncommonly  fine  type  of  heroine,  he  inva- 
riably adds  to  her  other  intellectual  and  moral  graces  the  above-mentioned 
ltrarest  of  qualities.'11  I  may  be  over-sanguine,  but  I  anticipate  that 
some  sagacious  genius  will  discover  that  woman  as  well  as  man  has  been 
endowed  with  this  excellent  gift  from  the  gods,  and  that  the  gift  pertains 
to  the  large,  generous,  sympathetic  nature,  quite  irrespective  of  the  indi- 
vidual's sex.  In  any  case,  having  heard  so  repeatedly  that  woman  has  no 
sense  of  humor,  it  would  be  refreshing  to  haw  a  contrariety  of  opinion  on 
that  subject. — THE  CRITIC. 


PROEM.* 


WE  are  coming  to  the  rescue, 

Just  a  hundred  strong  ; 
"With  fun  and  pun  and  epigram, 

And  laughter,  wit,  and  song  ; 

With  badinage  and  repartee, 

And  humor  quaint  or  bold, 
And  stories  that  are  stories, 

Not  several  asons  old  ; 

With  parody  and  nondescript, 

Burlesque  and  satire  keen, 
And  irony  and  playful  jest, 

So  that  it  may  be  seen 

That  women  are  not  quite  so  dull : 

We  come — a  merry  throng  ; 
Yes,  we're  coming  to  the  rescue, 

And  just  a  hundred  strong. 

KATE  SANBOBN. 
*  Not  Poem ! 


THE    WIT    OF   WOMEN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    MELANCHOLY    TONE    OF    WOMEN'S    POETRY PUNS,     GOOD 

AND    BAD — EPIGRAMS   AND   LACONICS — CYNICISM   OF   FRENCH 
WOMEN — SENTENCES   CRISP    AND    SPARKLING. 

To  begin  a  deliberate  search  for  wit  seems  almost  like 
trying  to  be  witty  :  a  task  quite  certain  to  brush  the  bloom 
from  even  the  most  fruitful  results.  But  the  statement  of 
Richard  Grant  White,  that  humor  is  the  "  rarest  of  qualities 
in  woman,"  roused  such  a  host  of  brilliant  recollections  that 
it  was  a  temptation  to  try  to  materialize  the  ghosts  that 
M'ere  haunting  me  ;  to  lay  forever  the  suspicion  that  they  did 
not  exist.  Two  articles  by  Alice  Wellington  Rollins  in  the 
Critic*  on  "  Woman's  Sense  of  Humor"  and  "  The  Humor 
of  Women,"  convinced  me  that  the  deliberate  task  might 
not  be  impossible  to  carry  out,  although  I  felt,  as  she  did, 
that  the  humor  and  wit  of  women  are  difficult  to  analyze, 
and  select  examples,  precisely  because  they  possess  in  the 
highest  degree  that  almost  essential  quality  of  wit,  the  un- 
premeditated glow  which  exists  only  with  the  occasion  that 
calls  its  forth.  Even  from  the  humor  of  women  found  in 
books  it  is  hard  to  quote — not  because  there  is  so  little,  but 
because  there  is  so  much. 


14  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

The  encouragement  to  attempt  this  novel  enterprise  of 
proving  ("  by  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them")  that  women 
are  not  deficient  in  either  wit  or  humor  has  not  been  great. 
Wise  librarians  have,  with  a  smile,  regretted  the  paucity  of 
proper  material  ;  literary  men  have  predicted  rather  a  thin 
volume  ;  in  short,  the  general  opinion  of  men  is  condensed 
in  the  sly  question  of  a  peddler  who  comes  to  our  door, 
summer  and  winter,  his  stock  varying  with  the  season  : 
sage-cheese  and  home-made  socks,  suspenders  and  cheap 
note-paper,  early-rose  potatoes  and  the  solid  pearmain. 
This  shrewd  old  fellow  remarked  roguishly  :  "  You're 
gittin'  up  a  book,  I  see,  'baout  women's  wit.  'T won't  be 
no  great  of  an  undertakin',  will  it  ?"  The  outlook  at  first 
was  certainly  discouraging.  In  Parton's  "Collection  of 
Humorous  Poetry"  there  was  not  one  woman's  name,  nor 
in  Dodd's  large  volume  of  epigrams  of  all  ages,  nor  in 
any  of  the  humorous  departments  of  volumes  of  selected 
poetry. 

Griswold's  "  Female  Poets  of  America"  was  next  exam- 
ined. The  genera]  air  of  gloom — hopeless  gloom — was  de- 
pressing. Such  mawkish  sentimentality  and  despair  ;  such 
inane  and  mortifying  confessions  ;  such  longings  for  a  lover 
to  come  ;  such  sighings  over  a  lover  departed  ;  such  crav- 
ings for  "  only" — "  only"  a  grave  in  some  dark,  dank  soli- 
tude. As  Mrs.  Dodge  puts  it,  "  Pegasus  generally  feels 
inclined  to  pace  toward  a  graveyard  the  moment  he  feels  a 
side-saddle  on  his  back." 

The  subjects  of  their  lucubrations  suggest  Lady  Mon- 
tagu's famous  speech  :  "  There  was  only  one  reason  she 
was  glad  she  was  a  woman  :  she  should  never  have  to  marry 
one." 


THE   MELANCHOLY    TONE   OF    WOMEN'S    POETKY.  15 

From  the  "  Female  Poets"  1  copy  this  "  Song,"  repre- 
senting the  average  woman's  versifying  as  regards  buoyancy 
and  an  optimistic  view  of  this  "  Wale  of  Tears": 

"  Ask  not  from  me  the  sportive  jest, 

The  mirthful  jibe,  the  gay  reflection  ; 
These  social  baubles  fly  the  breast 

That  owns  the  sway  of  pale  Dejection. 

"  Ask  not  from  me  the  changing  smile, 

Hope's  sunny  glow,  Joy's  glittering  token  ; 
It  cannot  now  my  griefs  beguile—- 
My soul  is  dark,  my  heart  is  broken  ! 

*'  Wit  cannot  cheat  my  heart  of  woe, 

Flattery  wakes  no  exultation  ; 
And  Fancy's  flash  but  serves  to  show 
The  darkness  of  my  desolation  ! 

"  By  me  no  more  in  masking  guise 

Shall  thoughtless  repartee  be  spoken  ; 
My  mind  a  hopeless  ruin  lies — 

My  soul  is  dark,  my  heart  is  broken  !" 

In  recalling  the  witty  women  of  the  world,  I  must  surely 
go  back,  familiar  as  is  the  story,  to  the  Grecian  dame  who, 
when  given  some  choice  old  wine  in  a  tiny  glass  by  her 
miserly  host,  who  boasted  of  the  years  since  it  had  been 
bottled,  inquired,  "  Isn't  it  very  small  of  its  age  ?" 

This  ancient  story  is  too  much  in  the  style  of  the  male 
story- monger — you  all  know  him — who  repeats  with  undi- 
minished  gusto  for  the  forty-ninth  time  a  story  that  was 
tottering  in  senile  imbecility  when  Methuselah  was  teeth- 
ing,  and  is  now  in  a  sad  condition  of  anecdotage. 

It  is  affirmed  that  "  women  seldom  repeat  an  anecdote." 
That  is  well,  and  no  proof  of  their  lack  of  wit.  The  disci- 


16  THE   WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

pline  of  life  would  be  largely  increased  if  they  did  insist  on 
being  "reminded"  constantly  of  anecdotes  as  familiar  as 
the  hand-organ  repertoire  of  "  Captain  Jinks"  and  "  Beau- 
tiful Spring."  Their  sense  of  humor  is  too  keen  to  allow 
them  to  aid  these  aged  wanderers  in  their  endless  migra- 
tions. It  is  sufficiently  trying  to  their  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crous to  be  obliged  to  listen  with  an  admiring,  rapt  expres- 
sion to  some  anecdote  heard  in  childhood,  and  restrain  the 
laugh  until  the  oft-repeated  crisis  has  been  duly  reached. 
Still,  I  know  several  women  who,  as  brilliant  raconteurs, 
have  fully  equalled  the  efforts  of  celebrated  after-dinner 
wits. 

It  is  also  affirmed  that  "  women  cannot  make  a  pun," 
which,  if  true,  would  be  greatly  to  their  honor.  But,  alas  ! 
their  puns  are  almost  as  frequent  and  quite  as  execrable  as 
are  ever  perpetrated.  It  was  Queen  Elizabeth  who  said  : 
"  Though  ye  be  burly,  my  Lord  Burleigh,  ye  make  less  stir 
than  my  Lord  Leicester." 

Lady  Morgan,  the  Irish  novelist,  witty  and  captivating, 
who  wrote  "  Kate  Kearney"  and  the  "  Wild  Irish  Girl," 
made  several  good  puns.  Some  one,  speaking  of  the  laxity 
of  a  certain  bishop  in  regard  to  Lenten  fasting,  said  :  "  I 
believe  he  would  eat  a  horse  on  Aeh  Wednesday."  "  And 
very  proper  diet,"  said  her  ladyship,  "if  it  were  a.  fast 
horse. " 

Her  special  enemy,  Croker,  had  declared  that  Welling, 
ton's  success  at  Waterloo  was  only  a  fortunate  accident,  and 
intimated  that  he  could  have  done  better  himself,  under 
similar  circumstances.  "Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  her  lady- 
ship, "  he  had  his  secret  for  winning  the  battle.  He  had 
only  to  put  his  notes  on  Boswell's  Johnson  in  front  of  the 


PUNS.  17 

British  lines,  and  all  tlie  Bonapartes  that  ever  existed  could 
never  get  through  them  !" 

"  Grace  Greenwood  "  has  probably  made  more  puns  in 
print  than  any  other  woman,  and  her  conversation  is  full  of 
them.  It  was  Grace  Greenwood  who,  at  a  tea-drinking  at 
the  Woman's  Club  in  Boston,  was  begged  to  tell  one  more 
story,  but  excused  herself  in  this  way  :  "  No,  I  cannot  get 
more  than  one  story  high  on  a  cup  of  tea  !' ' 

You  see  puns  are  allowed  at  that  rarely  intellectual  assem- 
blage— indeed,  they  are  sometimes  very  bad  ;  as  when  the 
question  was  brought  up  whether  better  speeches  could  be 
made  after  simple  tea  and  toast,  or  under  the  influence  of 
champagne  and  oysters.  Miss  Mary  Wadsworth  replied 
that  it  would  depend  entirely  upon  whether  the  oysters 
were  cooked  or  raw  ;  and  seeing  all  look  blank,  she  ex- 
plained :  "  Because,  if  raw,  we  should  be  sure  to  have  a 
raw-oyster-ing  time. " 

Louisa  Alcott's  puns  deserve  "honorable  mention."  I 
will  quote  one.  "  Query — If  steamers  are  named  the  Asia, 
the  Russia,  and  the  Scotia,  why  not  call  one  the  Nausea  f' 

At  a  Chicago  dinner-party  a  physician  received  a  menu 
card  with  the  device  of  a  mushroom,  and  showing  it  to  the 
lady  next  him,  said  :  "  I  hope  nothing  invidious  is  in- 
tended." "  Oh,  no,"  was  tli3  answer,  "  it  only  alludes  to 
the  fact  that  you  spring  up  in  the  night." 

A  gentleman,  noticeable  on  the  porch  of  the  sanctuary  as 
the  pretty  girls  came  in  on  Sabbath  mornings,  but  not 
regarded  as  a  devout  attendant  on  the  services  within, 
declared  that  he  was  one  of  the  "  pillars  of  the  church  !" 
"  Pillar-sham,  I  am  inclined  to  think,"  was  the  retort  of  a 
lady  friend. 


18  THE   WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

To  a  lady  who,  in  reply  to  a  gentleman's  assertion  that 
women  sometimes  made  a  good  pun,  but  required  time  to 
think  about  it,  had  said  that  she  could  make  a  pun  as 
quickly  as  any  man,  the  gentleman  threw  down  this  chal- 
lenge :  "  Make  a  pun,  then,  on  horse-shoe."  "  If  you  talk 
until  you're  horse-shoe  can't  convince  me,"  was  the  instant 
answer. 

The  best  punning  poem  from  a  woman's  pen  was  written 
by  Miss  Caroline  B.  Le  Row,  of  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  a  teacher 
of  elocution,  and  the  writer  of  many  charming  stories  and 
verses.  It  was  suggested  by  a  study  in  butter  of  "  The 
Dreaming  lolanthe,' '  moulded  by  Caroline  S.  Brooks  on  a 
kitchen-table,  and  exhibited  at  the  Centennial  in  Philadel- 
phia. I  do  not  remember  any  other  poem  in  the  language 
that  rings  so  many  changes  on  a  single  word.  It  was  pub- 
lished first  in  Baldwin's  Monthly,  but  ran  the  rounds  of 
the  papers  all  over  the  country. 

I. 

"  One  of  the  Centennial  buildings 

Shows  us  many  a  wondrous  thing 
Which  the  women  of  our  country. 

From  their  homes  were  proud  to  bring. 
In  a  little  corner,  guarded 

By  Policeman  Twenty-eight, 
Stands  a  crowd,  all  eyes  and  elbows, 

Seeing  butter  butter-plate 

II. 

"  "Tis  not  '  butter  faded  flower  ' 

That  the  people  throng  to  see, 
Butter  crowd  comes  every  hour, 
Nothing  butter  crowd  we  see. 


PUNS.  19 


Butter  little  pushing  brings  us 
Where  we  find,  to  our  surprise, 

That  within  the  crowded  corner 
Butter  dreaming  woman  lies. 

III. 
"  Though  she  lies,  she  don't  deceive  us, 

As  it  might  at  first  be  thought  ; 
This  fair  maid  is  made  of  butter, 

On  a  kitchen-table  wrought. 
Nothing  butter  butter-paddle, 

Sticks  and  straws  were  used  to  bring 
Out  of  just  nine  pounds  of  butter 
Butter  fascinating  thing. 

IV. 
"  Butter  maid  or  made  of  butter, 

She  is  butter  wonder  rare  ; 
Butter  sweet  eyes  closed  in  slumber, 

Butter  soft  and  yellow  hair, 
Were  the  work  of  butter  woman 

Just  two  thousand  miles  away  ; 
Butter  fortune's  in  the  features 
That  she  made  in  butter  stay. 

V. 
"  Maid  of  all  work,  maid  of  honor, 

'Whatsoever  she  may  be, 
She  is  butter  wondrous  worker, 
As  the  crowd  can  plainly  see. 
And  'tis  butter  woman  shows  us 
What  with  butter  can  be  done, 
Nothing  butter  hands  producing 
Something  new  beneath  the  sun. 

VI. 
"  Butter  line  we  add  in  closing, 

Which  none  butter  could  refuse  : 
May  her  work  be  butter  pleasure* 
Nothing  butter  butter  use  ; 


20  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

May  she  never  need  for  butter, 

Though  she'll  often  knead  for  bread, 

And  may  every  churning  bring  her 
Butter  blessing  on  her  head." 

The  second  and  last  example  is  much  more  common  in  its 
form,  but  is  just  as  good  as  most  of  the  verses  of  this  style 
in  Parton's  "  Humorous  Poetry."  I  don't  pretend  that  it  is 
remarkable,  but  it  is  equally  worthy  of  presentation  with 
many  efforts  of  this  sort  from  men  with  a  reputation  for 
wit. 

THE  VEGETABLE   GIKL. 

BY    MAY    TAYLOR. 

Behind  a  market-stall  installed, 

I  mark  it  every  day, 
Stands  at  her  stand  the  fairest  girl 

I've  met  within  the  bay  ; 
Her  two  lips  are  of  cherry  red, 

Her  hands  a  pretty  pair, 
With  such  a  charming  turn-up  nose, 

And  lovely  reddish  hair. 

'Tis  there  she  stands  from  morn  till  night, 

Her  customers  to  please, 
And  to  appease  their  appetite 

She  sells  them  beans  and  peas. 
Attracted  by  the  glances  from 

The  apple  of  her  eye, 
And  by  her  Chili  apples,  too, 

Each  passer-by  will  buy. 

She  stands  upon  her  little  feet 

Throughout  the  livelong  day, 
And  sells  her  celery  and  things— 

A  big  feat,  by  the  way. 


EPIGRAMS    AND    LACONICS.  21 

She  changes  off  her  stock  for  change, 

Attending  to  each  call  ; 
And  when  she  has  but  one  beet  left, 

She  says,  "  Now,  that  beats  all." 

As  to  puns  in  conversation,  my  only  fear  is  that  they  are 
too  generally  indulged  in.  Only  one  of  this  sort  can  be 
allowed,  and  that  from  the  highest  lady  in  the  land,  who  is 
distinguished  for  culture  and  good  sense,  as  well  as  wit.  A 
friend  said  to  her  as  she  was  leaving  Buffalo  for  Washing- 
ton :  "  I  hope  you  will  hail  from  Buffalo." 

' '  Oh,  I  see  you  expect  me  to  hail  from  Buffalo  and  reign 
in  Washington,"  said  the  quick-witted  sister  of  our  Presi- 
dent. 

In  epigrams  there  is  little  to  offer.  But  as  it  is  stated 
that  "women  cannot  achieve  a  well-rounded  epigram,"  a 
few  specimens  must  be  produced. 

Jane  Austen  has  left  two  on  record.  The  first  was  sug- 
gested by  reading  in  a  newspaper  the  marriage  of  a  Mr. 
Gell  to  Miss  Gill,  of  Eastborne. 

"At  Eastborne,  Mr.  Gell,  from  being  perfectly  well, 
Became  dreadfully  ill  for  love  of  Miss  Gill  ; 
So  he  said,  with  some  sighs,  'I'm  the  slave  of  your  iis  ; 
Oh,  restore,  if  you  please,  by  accepting  my  ees.'  " 

The  second  is  on  the  marriage  of  a  middle-aged  flirt  with 
a  Mr.  Wake,  whom  gossips  averred  she  would  have  scorned 
in  her  prime. 

"  Maria,  good-humored  and  handsome  and  tall, 

For  a  husband  was  at  her  last  stake  ; 
And  having  in  vain  danced  at  many  a  ball, 
Is  now  happy  to  jump  at  a  Wake." 


22  THE    \VIT    OF    WOMEN. 

It  was  Lady  Tovvnsend  who  said  that  the  human  race  was 
divided  into  men,  women,  and  Herveys.  This  epigram  has 
been  borrowed  in  our  day,  substituting  for  Herveys  the 
Beecher  family. 

When  some  one  said  of  a  lady  she  must  be  in  spirits,  for 
she  lives  with  Mr.  Walpole,  "  Yes,"  replied  Lady  Town- 
send,  "  spirits  of  hartshorn." 

Walpole,  caustic  and  critical,  regarded  this  lady  as  unde- 
niably witty. 

It  was  Hannah  More  who  said  :  i '  There  are  but  two  bad 
things  in  this  world — sin  and  bile." 

Miss  Thackeray  quotes  several  epigrammatic  definitions 
from  her  friend  Miss  Evans,  as  : 

"  A  privileged  person  :  one  who  is  so  much  a  savage 
when  thwarted  that  civilized  persons  avoid  thwarting  him." 

"A  musical  woman  :  one  who  has  strength  enough  to 
make  much  noise  and  obtuseness  enough  not  to  mind  it." 

"  Ouida"  has  given  us  some  excellent  examples  of  epi- 
gram, as  : 

"  A  pipe  is  a  pocket  philosopher,  a  truer  one  than  Socrates, 
for  it  never  asks  questions.  Socrates  must  have  been  very 
tiresome,  when  one  thinks  of  it." 

"  Dinna  ye  meddle,  Tarn  ;  it's  niver  no  good  a  threshin' 
other  folks'  corn  ;  ye  allays  gits  the  flail  agin'  i'  yer  own 
.eye  somehow." 

"  Epigrams  are  the  salts  of  life  ;  but  they  wither  up  the 
.•grasses  of  foolishness,  and  naturally  the  grasses  hate  to  be 
sprinkled  therewith. ' ' 

"  A  man  never  is  so  honest  as  when  he  speaks  well  of  him- 
self. Men  are  always  optimists  when  they  look  inward, 
arid  pessimists  when  they  look  round  them. " 


CYNICISM    OF    FRENCH    WOMEN.  23 

"  Nothing  is  so  pleasant  as  to  display  your  worldly  wisdom 
in  epigram  and  dissertation,  but  it  is  a  trifle  tedious  to  hear 
another  person  display  theirs." 

"  When  you  talk  yourself  you  think  how  witty,  how  orig- 
inal, how  acute  you  are  ;  but  when  another  does  so,  you  are 
very  apt  to  think  only,  '  What  a  crib  from  Rochefou- 
cauld !'" 

' '  Boredom  is  the  ill-natured  pebble  that  always  will  get  in 
the  golden  slipper  of  the  pilgrim  of  pleasure." 

"  It  makes  all  the  difference  in  life  whether  hope  is  left 
or — left  out  !" 

' '  A  frog  that  dwelt  in  a  ditch  spat  at  a  worm  that  bore  a 
lamp. 

"  '  Why  do  you  do  that  ? '  said  the  glow-worm. 

"  '  Why  do  you  shine  ? '  said  the  frog." 

' '  Calumny  is  the  homage  of  our  contemporaries,  as  some 
South  Sea  Islanders  spit  on  those  they  honor." 

"  Hived  bees  get  sugar  because  they  will  give  back  honey. 
All  existence  is  a  series  of  equivalents." 

"'Men  are  always  like  Horace,'  said  the  Princess. 
'  They  admire  rural  life,  but  they  remain,  for  all  that,  with 
Augustus.' ' 

"  If  the  Venus  de  Medici  could  be  animated  into  life, 
women  would  only  remark  that  her  waist  was  large." 

The  brilliant  Frenchwomen  whose  very  names  seem 
to  sparkle  as  we  write  them,  yet  of  whose  wit  so  little 
has  been  preserved,  had  an  especial  facility  for  condensed 
cynicism. 

Think  of  Madame  du  Deffand,  sceptical,  sarcastic  ;  feared 
and  hated  even  in  her  blind  old  age  for  her  scathing  criti- 


2  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

cisms.  When  the  celebrated  work  of  Helvetius  appeared 
he  was  blamed  in  her  presence  for  having  made  selfishness 
the  great  motive  of  human  action. 

"  Bah  !"  said  she,  "  he  has  only  revealed  every  one's 
secret." 

And  listen  to  this  trio  of  laconics,  with  their  saddening 
knowledge  of  human  frailty  and  their  bitter  Voltaireish 
flavor  : 

We  shall  all  be  perfectly  virtuous  when  there  is  no  longer 
any  flesh  on  our  bones. — Marguerite  de  Valois. 

We  like  to  know  the  weakness  of  eminent  persons  ;  it 
consoles  us  for  our  inferiority.  — Mme.  de  Lambert. 

Women  give  themselves  to  God  when  the  devil  wants 
nothing  more  to  do  with  them. — Sophie  Arnould. 

Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  present  detached  thoughts 
worthy  of  Rochefoucauld  without  his  cynicism.  She  writes  : 
"  One  loves  so  much  to  talk  of  one's  self  that  one  never  tires 
of  a  tete-a-tete  with  a  lover  for  years.  That  is  the  reason 
that  a  devotee  likes  to  be  with  her  confessor.  It  is  for  the 
pleasure  of  talking  of  one's  self — even  though  speaking  evil. " 
And  she  remarks  to  a  lady  who  amused  her  friends  by  always 
going  into  mourning  for  some  prince,  or  duke,  or  member  of 
some  royal  family,  and  who  at  last  appeared  in  bright  colors, 
"  Madame,  I  congratulate  myself  on  the  health  of  Europe." 

1  find,  too,  many  fine  aphorisms  from  "  Carmen  Sylva" 
(Queen  of  Roumania)  : 

"  11  vaut  mieux  avoir  pour  confesseur  un  medecin  qu'un 
pretre.  Vous  dites  au  pretre  que  vous  detestez  les  hommes, 
il  vous  reponds  que  vous  n'etes  pas  chretien.  Le  medecin 
vous  donne  de  la  rhubarbe,  et  voila  que  vous  aimez  votre 
semblable." 


SOME   WITTY  ENGLISHWOMEN.  25 

"  Vous  dites  an  pretre  que  vous  etes  fatigue  de  vivre  ;  il 
vous  reponds  que  le  suicide  est  un  crime.  Le  medecin  vous 
donne  un  stimulant,  et  voila  que  vous  trouvez  la  vie  suppor- 
table." 

"  La  contradiction  anime  la  conversation  ;  voila  pourquoi 
les  cours  sont  si  ennuyeuses. " 

"  Quand  on  veut  affirmer  quelqne  chose,  on  appelle  tou- 
jours  Dieu  a  temoin,  parce  qu'il  m1  contredit  jamais." 

"  On  ne  peut  jamais  etre  fatigue  de  la  vie,  on  n'est  fatigue 
que  de  soi-meme. " 

"  II  faut  etre  on  tres-pieux  on  tres-philosophe  !  il  faut 
dire  :  Seigneur,  que  ta  volonte  soit  faite  !  ou  :  Mature, 
j'admets  tes  lois,  ineme  lorsqu'elles  m  ecrasent. " 

"  L'homme  est  un  violon.  Ce  n'est  qne  lorsque  sa 
derniere  corde  se  brise  qu'il  devient  un  morceau  de  bois." 

In  the  recently  published  sketch  of  Madame  Mohl  there 
are  several  sentences  which  show  trenchant  wit,  as  :  "Na- 
tions squint  in  looking  at  one  another  ;  we  must  discount 
what  Germany  and  France  say  of  each  other." 

Several  Englishwomen  can  be  recalled  who  were  noted 
for  their  epigrammatic  wit :  as  Harriet,  Lady  Ashburton. 
On  some  one  saying  that  liars  generally  speak  good-nat- 
uredly of  others,  she  replied  :  "  Why,  if  you  don't  speak  a 
word  of  truth,  it  is  not  so  difficult  to  speak  well  of  your 
neighbor." 

"  Don't  speak  so  hardly  of •, "  some  one  said  to  her  ; 

"  he  lives  on  your  good  graces.' ' 

"  That  accounts,"  she  answered,  "  for  his  being  so  thin." 

Again  :  "  I  don't  mind  the  canvas  of  a  man's  mind  being 
good,  if  only  it  is  completely  hidden  by  the  worsted  and 
floss." 


26  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Or  :  "  She  never  speaks  to  any  one,  which  is,  of  course, 
a  great  advantage  to  any  one." 

Mrs.  Carlyle  was  an  epigram  herself — small,  sweet,  yet 
possessing  a  sting — and  her  letters  give  us  many  sharp  and 
original  sayings. 

She  speaks  in  one  place  of  "  Mrs.  ,  an  insupport- 
able bore  ;  her  neck  and  arms  were  as  naked  as  if  she  had 
never  eaten  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil." 

And  what  a  comical  phrase  is  hers  when  she  writes  to  her 
"Dearest" — "I  take  time  by  the  pig-tail  and  write  at 
night,  after  post- hours1' — that  growling,  surly  "dearest," 
of  whom  she  said,  "  The  amount  of  bile  that  he  brings 
home  is  awfully  grand." 

For  a  veritable  epigram  from  an  American  woman's  pen 
we  must  rely  on  Hannah  F.  Gould,  who  wrote  many  verses 
that  were  rather  graceful  and  arch  than  witty.  But  her 
epitaph  on  her  friend,  the  active  and  aggressive  Caleb 
Gushing,  is  as  good  as  any  made  by  Saxe. 

"  Lay  aside,  all  ye  dead, 
For  in  the  next  bed 

Reposes  the  body  of  Gushing  ; 
He  has  crowded  his  way 
Through  the  world,  they  say, 

And  even  though  dead  will  be  pushing." 

Such  a  hit  from  a  bright  woman  is  refreshing. 

Our  literary  foremothers  seemed  to  prefer  to  be  pedantic, 
didactic,  and  tedious  on  the  printed  page. 

Catharine  Sedgwick  dealt  somewhat  in  epigram,  as  when 
she  says  :  "  He  was  not  one  of  those  convenient  single  peo- 
ple who  are  used,  as  we  use  straw  and  cotton  in  packing,  to 
fill  up  vacant  places." 


EPIGRAMMATIC    SENTENCES.  27 

Eliza  Leslie  (famed  for  her  cook-books  and  her  satiric 
sketches),  when  speaking  of  people  silent  from  stupidity, 
supposed  kindly  to  be  full  of  reserved  power,  says  :  "  We 
cannot  help  thinking  that  when  a  head  is  full  of  ideas  some 
of  them  must  involuntarily  ooze  out. " 

And  is  not  this  epigrammatic  advice  ?  "  Avoid  giving 
invitations  to  bores — they  will  come  without." 

Some  of  our  later  literary  women  prefer  the  epigrammatic 
form  in  sentences,  crisp  and  laconic  ;  short  sayings  full  of 
pith,  of  which  I  have  made  a  collection. 

Gail  Hamilton's  books  fairly  bristle  with  epigrams  in 
condensed  style,  and  Kate  Field  has  many  a  good  thought 
in  this  shape,  as  :  "  Judge  no  one  by  his  relations,  whatever 
criticism  you  pass  upon  his  companions.  Relations,  like 
features,  are  thrust  upon  us  ;  companions,  like  clothes,  are 
more  or  less  our  own  selection." 

Miss  Jewett's  style  is  less  epigrammatic,  but  just  as  full  of 
humor.  Speaking  of  a  person  who  was  always  complaining, 
she  says  :  "  Xothing  ever  suits  her.  She  ain't  had  no  more 
troubles  to  bear  than  the  rest  of  us  ;  but  you  never  see  her 
that  she  didn't  have  a  chapter  to  lay  before  ye.  I've  got  's 
much  feelin'  as  the  next  one,  but  when  folks  drives  in  their 
spiggits  and  wants  to  draw  a  bucketful  o'  compassion  every 
day  right  straight  along,  there  does  come  times  when  it 
seems  as  if  the  bar'l  was  getting  low." 

"  The  captain,  whose  eyes  were  not  much  better  than  his 
ears,  always  refused  to  go  forth  after  nightfall  without  his 
lantern.  The  old  couple  steered  slowly  down  the  uneven 
sidewalk  toward  their  cousin's  house.  The  captain  walked 
with  a  solemn,  rolling  gait,  learned  in  his  many  long  years 
at  sea,  and  his  wife,  who  was  also  short  and  stout,  had 


28  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

caught  the  habit  from  him.  If  they  kept  step  all  went 
well  ;  but  on  this  occasion,  as  sometimes  happened,  they 
did  not  take  the  first  step  out  into  the  world  together,  so 
they  swayed  apart,  and  then  bumped  against  each  other  as 
they  went  along.  To  see  the  lantern  coming  through  the 
mist  you  might  have  thought  it  the  light  of  a  small  craft  at 
sea  in  heavy  weather." 

"  Deaf  people  hear  more  things  that  are  worth  listening 
to  than  people  with  better  ears  ;  one  likes  to  have  some- 
thing worth  telling  in  talking  to  a  person  who  misses  most 
of  the  world's  talk." 

"  Emory  Ann,"  a  creation  of  Mrs.  Whitney's,  often  spoke 
in  epigrams,  as  :  "  Good  looks  are  a  snare  ;  especially  to 
them  that  haven't  got 'em."  While  Mrs.  Walker's  creed, 
"I  believe  in  the  total  depravity  of  inanimate  things,"  is 
more  than  an  epigram — it  is  an  inspiration. 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates,  who  compiled  the  u  Cambridge 
Book  of  Poetry,"  and  has  given  us  a  charming  volume  of 
her  own  verses,  which  no  one  runs  any  "  Risk"  in  buying, 
in  spite  of  the  title  of  the  book,  has  done  a  good  deal 
in  this  direction,  and  is  fond  of  giving  an  epigrammatic 
turn  to  a  bright  thought,  as  in  the  following  couplet  : 

"  "Would  you  sketch  in  two  words  a  coquette  and  deceiver  ? 
Name  two  Irish  geniuses,  Lover  and  Lever  !" 

She  also  succeeds  with  the  quatrain  : 

ON  BEING  CALLED   A  GOOSE. 

A  signal  name  is  this,  upon  my  word  ! 

Great  Juno's  geese  saved  Rome  her  citadel. 
Another  drowsy  Manlius  may  be  stirred 

And  the  State  saved,  if  I  but  cackle  well. 


EPIGRAMS    FROM    AMERICAN    WOMEN.  29 

I  recall  a  charming  jeu  d"1  esprit  from  Mrs.  Barrows,  the 
beloved  "  Aunt  Fanny,"  who  writes  equally  well  for  chil- 
dren and  grown  folks,  and  whose  big  heart  ranges  from 
earnest  philanthropy  to  the  perpetration  of  exquisite  non- 
sense. 

It  is  but  a  trifle,  sent  with  a  couple  of  peanut-owls  to  a 
niece  of  Bryant's.  The  aged  poet  was  greatly  amused. 

"  When  great  Minerva  chose  the  Owl, 

That  bird  of  solemn  phiz, 
That  truly  awful-looking  fowl, 

To  represent  her  wis- 
Doin,  little  recked  the  goddess  of 

The  time  when  she  would  howl 
To  see  a  Peanut  set  on  end, 

And  called — Minerva's  Owl." 

Miss  Phelps  has  given  us  some  sentences  which  convey 
an  epigram  in  a  keen  and  delicate  fashion,  as  : 

"  All  forms  of  self-pity,  like  Prussian  blue,  should  be 
sparingly  used." 

"  As  a  rule,  a  man  can't  cultivate  his  mustache  and  his 
talents  impartially." 

"  As  happy  as  a  kind-hearted  old  lady  with  a  funeral  to 
go  to." 

"  No  men  are  so  fussy  about  what  they  eat  as  those  who 
think  their  brains  the  biggest  part  of  them." 

"  The  professor's  sister,  a  homeless  widow,  of  excellent 
Vermont  intentions  and  high  ideals  in  cup-cake." 

And  this  longer  extract  has  the  same  characteristics  : 

' '  You  know  how  it  is  with  people,  Avis  ;  some  take  to 
zoology,  and  some  take  to  religion.  That's  the  way  it  is 
with  places.  It  may  be  the  Lancers,  and  it  may  be  prayer- 


30  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

meetings.  Once  I  went  to  see  my  grandmother  in  the 
country,  and  everybody  had  a  candy-pull  ;  there  were 
twenty-five  candy-pulls  and  taffy- bakes  in  that  town  that 
winter.  John  Rose  says,  in  the  Connecticut  Valley,  where 
he  came  from,  it  was  missionary  barrels  ;  and  I  heard  of  a 
place  where  it  was  cold  coffee.  In  Harmouth  it's  improv- 
ing your  mind.  And  so,"  added  Goy,  "  we  run  to  read- 
ing clubs,  and  we  all  go  fierce,  winter  after  winter,  to  see 
who'll  get  the  '  severest. '  There's  a  set  outside  of  the 
faculty  that  descends  to  charades  and  music  and  inconceiv- 
ably low  intellectual  depths  ;  and  some  of  our  girls  sneak 
off  and  get  in  there  once  in  a  while,  like  the  little  girl  that 
wanted  to  go  from  heaven  to  hell  to  play  Saturday  after- 
noons, just  as  you  and  I  used  to  do,  Avis,  when  we  dared. 
But  I  find  I've  got  too  old  for  that,"  said  Coy,  sadly. 
"  When  you're  fairly  past  the  college- boys,  and  as  far  along 
as  the  law  students — " 

"  Or  the  theologues  ?"  interposed  Avis. 

"  Yes,  or  the  theologues,  or  even  the  medical  depart- 
ment ;  then  there  positively  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  im- 
prove your  mind." 

Listen  to  Lavinia,  one  of  Mrs.  Rose  Terry  Cooke's  sensi- 
ble Yankee  women  : 

"  Land  !  if  you  want  to  know  folks,  just  hire  out  to  'em. 
They  take  their  wigs  off  afore  the  help,  so  to  speak,  seem- 
ingly." 

"  Marryin'  a  man  ain't  like  settin'  alongside  of  him 
nights  and  hearin'  him  talk  pretty  ;  that's  the  fust  prayer. 
There's  lots  an'  lots  o'  meetin'  after  that  !" 

And  what  an  amount  of  sense,  as  well  as  wit,  in  Sam 
Lawson's  sayings  in  "  Old  Town  Folks."  As  this  book  is 


EPIGRAMS    FROM    AMERICAN    WOMEN.  31 

not  to  be  as  large  as  Worcester's  Unabridged  Dictionary,  I 
can  only  give  room  to  one. 

"  We  don't  none  of  us  like  to  have  our  sins  set  in  order 
afore  us.  There  was  David,  now,  he  was  crank  as  could 
be  when  he  thought  Nathan  was  a  talkin'  about  other  peo- 
ple's sins.  Says  David  :  '  The  man  that  did  that  shall 
surely  die. '  But  come  to  set  it  home  and  say,  '  Thou  art  the 
man  ! '  David  caved  right  in.  '  Lordy  massy,  bless  your 
soul  and  body,  Xathan  ! '  says  he,  '  I  don't  want  to  die. ' ' 

And  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney  must  not  be  forgotten.  "  As 
Emory  Ann  said  once  about  thoughts  :  '  You  can't  hinder 
'em  any  more  than  you  can  the  birds  that  fly  in  the  air  ;  but 
you  needn't  let  'em  light  and  make  a  nest  in  your  hair.'  : 

And  what  a  capital  hit  on  the  hypocritical  apologies  of 
conceited  housekeepers  is  this  bit  from  Mrs.  Whicher 
("  Widow  Bedott")  :  "  A  person  that  didn't  know  how 
wimmin  always  go  on  at  such  a  place  would  a  thought  that 
Miss  Gipson  had  tried  to  have  everything  the  miserablest 
she  possibly  could,  and  that  the  rest  on  'em  never  had  any- 
thing to  hum  but  what  was  miserabler  yet." 

And  Marietta  Holley,  who  has  caused  a  tidal-wave  of 
laughter  by  her  "  Josiah  Allen's  Wife"  series,  shall  have 
her  say. 

"  We,  too,  are  posterity,  though  mebby  we  don't  realize 
it  as  we  ort  to. ' ' 

"She  didn't  seem  to  sense  anything,  only  ruffles  and 
such  like.  Her  mind  all  seemed  to  be  narrowed  down  and 
puckered  up,  just  like  trimmin'." 

But  1  must  have  convinced  the  most  sceptical  of  woman's 
wit  in  epigrammatic  form,  and  will  now  return  to  an  older 
generation,  who  claim  a  fair  share  of  attention. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HUMOR    OF    LITERAEY    ENGLISHWOMEN. 

IN  reviewing  the  Ion-mots  of  Stella,  whom  Swift  pro- 
nounced the  most  witty  woman  he  had  ever  known,  it 
seems  that  we  are  improving.  I  will  give  but  two  of  her 
sayings,  which  were  so  carefully  preserved  by  her  friend. 

When  she  was  extremely  ill  her  physician  said, 
"  Madam,  you  are  near  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  but  we  will 
endeavor  to  get  you  up  again  ;"  she  answered  :  "  Doctor,  I 
fear  I  shall  be  out  of  breath  before  I  get  up  to  the  top." 

After  she  had  been  eating  some  sweet  thing  a  little  of  it 
happened  to  stick  on  her  lips.  A  gentleman  told  her  of  it, 
and  offered  to  lick  it  off.  She  said  :  "  No,  sir,  I  thank 
you  ;  I  have  a  tongue  of  my  own." 

Compare  these  with  the  wit  of  George  Eliot  or  the  irony 
of  Miss  Phelps. 

Some  of  Jane  Taylor's  stories  and  poems  were  formerly 
regarded  as  humorous  ;  for  instance,  the  "  Discontented 
Pendulum"  and  the  "Philosopher's  Scales."  They  do 
not  now  raise  the  faintest  smile. 

Fanny  Burney's  novels  were  considered  immensely 
humorous  and  diverting  in  their  day.  Burke  complimented 
her  on  "  her  natural  vein  of  humor,"  and  another  eminent 
critic  speaks  of  "  her  sarcasm,  drollery,  and  humor  ;"  but 
it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  find  a  passage  for  quota- 


HUMOR    OF    LITERARY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  33 

tion  that  would  now  satisfy  on  these  points.  Even  Jane 
Austen's  novels,  which  strangely  retain  their  hold  on  the 
public  taste,  are  tedious  to  those  who  dare  to  think  for 
themselves  and  forget  Macaulay's  verdict. 

Mrs.  Barbauld,  in  her  poem  on  "  Washing  Day,"  shows 
a  capacity  seldom  exercised  for  seeing  the  humorous  side  of 
every-day  miseries. 

"  Woe  to  the  friend 

Whose  evil  stars  have  urged  him  forth  to  claim 
On  such  a  day  the  hospitable  rites  ! 
Looks,  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy 
Shall  he  receive.     Vainly  he  feeds  his  hopes 
With  dinner  of  roast  chicken,  savory  pie, 
Or  tart,  or  pudding  ;  pudding  he  nor  tart 
That  day  shall  eat  ;  nor,  though  the  husband  try 
Mending  what  can't  be  helped  to  kindle  mirth 
From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort's  brow 
Cheer  up  propitious  ;  the  unlucky  guest 
In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away." 

But  her  style  is  too  stiff  and  stately  for  every  day. 

There  were  many  literary  Englishwomen  who  had  un- 
doubted humor.  Hannah  More  did  get  unendurably  poky, 
narrow,  and  solemn  in  her  last  days,  and  not  a  little  sancti- 
monious ;  and  we  naturally  think  of  her  as  an  aged  spinster 
with  black  mitts,  corkscrew  curls,  and  a  mob  cap,  always 
writing  or  presenting  a  tedious  tract,  forgetting  her  brilliant 
youth,  when  she  was  quite  good  enough,  and  lively,  too. 
She  was  a  perennial  favorite  in  London,  meeting  all  the 
notables  ;  the  special  pet  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Davy  Garrick, 
and  Horace  Walpole,  who  called  her  his  "  holy  Hannah," 
but  admired  and  honored  her,  corresponding  with  her 
through  a  long  life.  She  was  then  full  of  spirit  and  humor 


34:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

and  versatile  talent.  An  extract  from  her  sisters  lively 
letter  shows  that  Hannah  could  hold  her  own  with  the  Ursa 
Major  of  literature  : 

"  Tuesday  evening  we  drank  tea  at  Sir  Joshua's  with 
Dr.  Johnson.  Hannah  is  certainly  a  great  favorite.  She 
was  placed  next  him,  and  they  had  the  entire  conversation 
to  themselves.  They  were  both  in  remarkably  high  spirits. 
It  was  certainly  her  lucky  night.  I  never  heard  her  say  so 
many  good  things.  The  old  genius  was  extremely  jocular, 
and  the  young  one  very  pleasant.  You  would  have  imagined 
we  had  been  at  some  comedy  had  you  heard  our  peals  of 
laughter.  They,  indeed,  tried  which  could  pepper  the  high- 
est, and  it  is  not  clear  to  me  that  the  lexicographer  was  really 
the  highest  seasoner. ' ' 

And  how  deliciously  does  she  set  out  the  absurdity  then 
prevailing,  and  seen  now  in  editions  of  Shakespeare  and 
Chaucer,  of  writing  books,  the  bulk  of  which  consists  of 
notes,  with  only  a  line  or  two  at  the  top  of  each  page  of  the 
original  text. 

It  seems  that  a  merry  party  at  Dr.  Kennicott's  had  each 
adopted  the  name  of  some  animal.  Dr.  K.  was  the  ele- 
phant ;  Mrs.  K.,  dromedary  ;  Miss  Adams,  antelope  ;  and 
H.  More,  rhinoceros. 

"  HAMPTON,  December  24,  1728. 

"  DEAR  DKOMY  (a)  :  Pray,  send  word  if  Anie  (b)  is  come,  and  also  how 
Ele  (c)  does,  to  your  very  affectionate  KHYNEY'  '  (d). 

"  The  following  notes  on  the  above  epistle  are  by  a  com- 
mentator of  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century.  This 
epistle  is  all  that  is  come  down  to  us  of  this  voluminous 
author,  and  is  probably  the  only  thing  she  ever  wrote  that 


HUMOR   OF    LITERARY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  35 

was  worth  preserving,  or  which  might  reasonably  expect  to 
reach  posterity.  Her  name  is  only  presented  to  us  in  some 
beautiful  hendecasyllables  written  by  the  best  Latin  poet 
of  his  time  (Bishop  Lowth)  : 

Note  (a). 

"  Dromy.  —From  the  termination  of  this  address  it  seems  to  have  been 
written  to  a  woman,  though  there  is  no  internal  evidence  to  support  this 
hypothesis.  The  best  critics  are  much  puzzled  about  the  orthography  of 
this  abbreviation.  Wartonius  and  other  skilful  etymologists  contend 
that  it  ought  to  be  spelled  drummy,  being  addressed  to  a  lady  who  was 
probably  fond  of  warlike  instruments,  and  who  had  a  singular  predilec- 
tion for  a  canon.  Drummy,  say  they,  was  a  tender  diminutive  of  drum, 
as  the  best  authors  in  their  more  familiar  writings  now  begin  to  use 
gunny  for  gun.  But  Hardlus,  a  contemporary  critic,  contends,  with 
more  probability,  that  it  ought  to  be  written  Drome,  from  hippodrome  ; 
a  learned  leech  and  elegant  bard  of  Bath  having  left  it  on  record  that 
this  lady  spent  much  of  her  time  at  the  riding-school,  being  a  very  ex- 
quisite judge  of  horsemanship  Colmanus  and  Horatius  Strawberryensis 
insist  that  it  ought  to  be  written  Dromo,  in  reference  to  the  Dromo  Sora- 
sius  of  the  Latin  dramatist. 

Note  (b). 

"  Ante. — Scaliger  2d  says  this  name  simply  signifies  the  appellation  of 
uncle's  wife,  and  ought  to  be  written  Aunty.  But  here,  again,  are  various 
readings.  Philologists  of  yet  greater  name  affirm  that  it  was  meant  to 
designate  pre-eminence,  and  therefore  ought  to  be  written  ante,  before, 
from  the  Latin,  a  language  now  pretty  well  forgotten,  though  the  authors 
who  wrote  in  it  are  still  preserved  in  French  translations.  The  younger 
Madame  Dacier  insists  that  this  Udy  was  against  all  men,  and  that  it. 
ought  to  be  spelled  anti ;  but  this  Kennicotus,  a  rabbi  of  the  most  recon- 
dite learning,  with  much  critical  wrath,  vehemently  contradicts,  affirm- 
ing it  to  have  been  impossible  she  could  have  been  against  mankind 
whom  all  mankind  admired.  He  adds  that  ante  is  for  antelope,  and  is 
emblematically  used  to  express  an  elegant  and  slender  animal,  or  that  it 
is  an  elongation  of  ant,  the  emblem  of  virtuous  citizenship. " 

And  so  she  continues  her  comments  to  close  of  notes. 


36  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Gaskell's  "Cranford"  is  full  of  the  most  delicate 
but  veritable  humor,  as  her  allusion  to  the  genteel  and 
cheerful  poverty  of  the  lady  who,  in  giving  a  tea-party, 
"  now  sat  in  state,  pretending  not  to  know  what  cakes  were 
sent  up,  though  she  knew,  and  we  knew,  and  she  knew  that 
we  knew  ;  and  we  knew  that  she  knew  that  we  knew  she 
had  been  busy  all  the  morning  making  tea-bread  and 
sponge-cakes." 

The  humor  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  quiet  and  delectable, 
must  not  be  forgotten.  We  will  sympathize  with  her  woes 
as  she  describes  a  visitation  from 

THE   TALKING   LADY. 

"  Ben  Jonson  has  a  play  called  The  Silent  Woman,  who 
turns  out,  as  might  be  expected,  to  be  no  woman  at  all — 
nothing,  as  Master  Slender  said,  but  '  a  great  lubberly  boy,' 
thereby,  as  I  apprehend,  discourteously  presuming  that  a 
silent  woman  is  a  nonentity.  If  the  learned  dramatist,  thus 
happily  prepared  and  predisposed,  had  happened  to  fall  in 
with  such  a  specimen  of  female  loquacity  as  I  have  just 
parted  with,  he  might,  perhaps,  have  given  us  a  pendant  to 
his  picture  in  the  talking  lady.  Pity  but  he  had  !  He 
would  have  done  her  justice,  which  I  could  not  at  any 
time,  least  of  all  now  ;  I  atn  too  much  stunned,  too  much 
like  one  escaped  from  a  belfry  on  a  coronation  day.  I  am 
just  resting  from  the  fatigue  of  four  days'  hard  listening — 
four  snowy,  sleety,  rainy  days  ;  days  of  every  variety  of 
falling  weather,  all  of  them  too  bad  to  admit  the  possibility 
that  any  petticoated  thing,  were  she  as  hardy  as  a  Scotch 
fir,  should  stir  out  ;  four  days  chained  by  '  sad  civility '  to 


HUMOR    OF    LITERARY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  37 

that  fireside,  once  so  quiet,  and  again—  cheering  thought  ! — 
again  I  trust  to  be  so  when  the  echo  of  that  visitor's  inces- 
sant tongue  shall  have  died  away.  .  .  . 

"  She  took  us  in  her  way  from  London  to  the  west  of 
England,  and  being,  as  she  wrote,  '  not  quite  well,  not 
equal  to  much  company,  prayed  that  no  other  guest  might 
be  admitted,  so  that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  our 
conversation  all  to  herself  (purs  !  as  if  it  were  possible  for 
any  of  us  to  slide  in  a  word  edgewise  !),  and  especially 
enjoy  the  gratification  of  talking  over  old  times  with  the 
master  of  the  house,  her  countryman. ' 

"  Such  was  the  promise  of  her  letter,  and  to  the  letter  it 
has  been  kept.  All  the  news  and  scandal  of  a  large  county 
forty  years  ago,  and  a  hundred  years  before,  and  ever 
since  ;  all  the  marriages,  deaths,,  births,  elopements,  law- 
suits, and  casualties  of  her  own  times,  her  father's,  grand- 
father's, great-grandfathers,  nephews',  and  grandnephews' , 
has  she  detailed  with  a  minuteness,  an  accuracy,  a  prodigal- 
ity of  learning,  a  profuseness  of  proper  names,  a  pedantry 
of  locality,  which  would  excite  the  envy  of  a  county  histo- 
rian, a  king-at-arms,  or  even  a  Scotch  novelist. 

"  Her  knowledge  is  most  astonishing ;  but  the  most 
astonishing  part  of  all  is  how  she  came  by  that  knowledge. 
It  should  seern,  to  listen  to  her,  as  if  at  some  time  of  her 
life  she  must  have  listened  herself  ;  and  yet  her  countryman 
declares  that  in  the  forty  years  he  has  known  her,  no  such 
event  has  occurred  ;  and  she  knows  new  news,  too  !  It 
must  be  intuition  !  .  .  . 

"  The  very  weather  is  not  a  safe  subject.  Her  memory 
is  a  perpetual  register  of  hard  frosts  and  long  droughts,  and 
high  winds  and  terrible  storms,  with  all  the  evils  that  fol- 


38  THE    WIT    OF    WOMKX. 

lowed  in  their  train,  and  all  the  personal  events  connected 
with  them  ;  so  that,  if  you  happen  to  remark  that  clouds 
are  come  up  and  you  fear  it  may  rain,  she  replies  :  '  Ay,  it 
is  just  such  a  morning  as  three-and-thirty  years  ago,  when 
my  poor  cousin  was  married — you  remember  my  cousin 
Barbara  ;  she  married  so-and-so,  the  son  of  so-and-so  ;  '  and 
then  comes  the  whole  pedigree  of  the  bridegroom,  the 
amount  of  the  settlements,  and  the  reading  and  signing 
them  overnight  ;  a  description  of  the  wedding-dresses  in 
the  style  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  how  much  the 
bride's  gown  cost  per  yard  ;  the  names,  residences,  and  a 
short  subsequent  history  of  the  bridesmaids  and  men,  the 
gentleman  who  gave  the  bride  away,  and  the  clergyman 
who  performed  the  ceremony,  with  a  learned  antiquarian 
digression  relative  to  the  church  ;  then  the  setting  out  in 
procession  ;  the  marriage,  the  kissing,  the  crying,  the  break- 
fasting, the  drawing  the  cake  through  the  ring,  and,  finally, 
the  bridal  excursion,  which  brings  us  back  again,  at  an  hour's 
end,  to  the  starting-post,  the  weather,  and  the  whole  story 
of  the  sopping,  the  drying,  the  clothes-spoiling,  the  cold- 
catching,  and  all  the  small  evils  of  a  summer  shower.  By 
this  time  it  rains,  and  she  sits  down  to  a  pathetic  see-saw  of 
conjectures  on  the  chance  of  Mrs.  Smith's  having  set  out 
for  her  daily  walk,  or  the  possibility  that  Dr.  Brown  may 
have  ventured  to  visit  his  patients  in  his  gig,  and  the  cer- 
tainty that  Lady  Green's  new  housemaid  would  come  from 
London  on  the  outside  of  the  coach.  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder,  if  she  had  happened  to  be  married,  how 
many  husbands  she  would  have  talked  to  death.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  none  of  her  relatives  are  long-lived,  after  she 
comes  to  reside  with  them.  Father,  mother,  uncle,  sister, 


HUMOR    OF    LITERAKY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  39 

brother,  two  nephews,  and  one  niece,  all  these  have  suc- 
cessively passed  away,  though  a  healthy  race,  and  with  no 
visible  disorder — except —  But  we  must  not  be  unchari- 
table." 

Mary  Ferrier,  the  Scotch  novelist,  was  gifted  with  genial 
wit  and  a  quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  Walter  Scott  ad- 
mired her  greatly,  and  as  a  lively  guest  at  Abbotsford  she 
did  much  to  relieve  the  sadness  of  his  last  days.  He  said 
of  her  : 

"  She  is  a  gifted  personage,  having,  besides  her  great 
talents,  conversation  the  least  exigeante  of  any  author, 
female  at  least,  whom  I  have  ever  seen,  among  the  long  list 
I  have  encountered.  Simple  and  full  of  humor,  and  ex- 
ceedingly ready  at  repartee  ;  and  all  this  without  the  least 
affectation  of  the  blue-stocking.  The  general  strain  of  her 
writing  relates  to  the  foibles  and  oddities  of  mankind,  and 
no  one  has  drawn  them  with  greater  breadth  of  comic 
humor  or  effect.  Her  scenes  often  resemble  the  style  of  our 
best  old  comedies,  and  she  may  boast,  like  Foote,  of  adding 
many  new  and  original  characters  to  the  stock  of  our  comic 
literature." 

Here  is  one  of  her  admirably-drawn  portraits  : 

THE   SENSIBLE   WOMAN. 

"  Miss  Jacky,  the  senior  of  the  trio,  was  what  is  reck- 
oned a  very  sensible  woman — which  generally  means  a  very 
disagreeable,  obstinate,  illiberal  director  of  all  men,  women, 
and  children — a  sort  of  superintendent  of  all  actions,  time, 
and  place,  with  unquestioned  authority  to  arraign,  judge, 


40  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

and  condemn  upon  the  statutes  of  her  own  supposed  sense. 
Most  country  parishes  have  their  sensible  woman,  who  lays 
down  the  law  on  all  affairs,  spiritual  and  temporal.  Miss 
Jacky  stood  unrivalled  as  the  sensible  woman  of  Glenfern. 
She  had  attained  this  eminence  partly  from  having  a  little 
more  understanding  than  her  sisters,  but  principally  from 
her  dictatorial  manner,  and  the  pompous,  decisive  tone  in 
which  she  delivered  the  most  commonplace  truths.  At 
home  her  supremacy  in  all  matters  of  sense  was  perfectly 
established  ;  and  thence  the  infection,  like  other  supersti- 
tions, had  spread  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  As  a 
sensible  woman  she  regulated  the  family,  which  she  took 
care  to  let  everybody  hear  ;  she  was  a  sort  of  postmistress- 
general,  a  detector  of  all  abuses  and  impositions,  and  deemed 
it  her  prerogati  ve  to  be  consulted  about  all  the  useful  and 
useless  things  which  everybody  else  could  have  done  as  well. 
She  was  liberal  of  her  advice  to  the  poor,  always  enforcing 
upon  them  the  iniquity  of  idleness,  but  doing  nothing  for 
them  in  the  way  of  employment,  strict  economy  being  one 
of  the  many  points  in  which  she  was  particularly  sensible. 
The  consequence  was  that,  while  she  was  lecturing  half  the 
poor  women  in  the  parish  for  their  idleness,  the  bread  was 
kept  out  of  their  mouths  by  the  incessant  carding  of  wool, 
and  knitting  of  stockings,  and  spinning,  and  reeling,  and 
winding,  and  pirning,  that  went  on  among  the  ladies  them- 
selves. And,  by  the  by,  Miss  Jacky  is  not  the  only  sensi- 
ble woman  who  thinks  she  is  acting  a  meritorious  part  when 
she  converts  what  ought  to  be  the  portion  of  the  poor  into 
the  employment  of  the  affluent. 

"  In  short,   Miss  Jacky  was  all  over  sense.     A  skilful 
physiognomist  would  at  a  single  glance  have  detected  the 


HDMOK    OF    LITERARY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  41 

sensible  woman  in  the  erect  head,  the  compressed  lips, 
square  elbows,  and  firm,  judicious  step.  Even  her  very 
garments  seemed  to  partake  of  the  prevailing  character  of 
their  mistress.  Her  ruff  always  looked  more  sensible  than 
any  other  body's  ;  her  shawl  sat  most  sensibly  on  her  shoul- 
ders ;  her  walking-shoes  were  acknowledged  to  be  very 
sensible,  and  she  drew  on  her  gloves  with  an  air  of  sense,  as 
if  the  one  arm  had  been  Seneca,  the  other  Socrates.  From 
what  has  been  said  it  may  easily  be  inferred  that  Miss  Jacky 
was,  in  fact,  anything  but  a  sensible  woman,  as,  indeed,  no 
woman  can  be  who  bears  such  visible  outward  marks  of 
what  is  in  reality  the  most  quiet  and  unostentatious  of  all 
good  qualities." 

Frederika  Bremer,  the  Swedish  novelist,  whose  novels 
have  been  translated  into  English,  German,  French,  and 
Dutch,  had  a  style  peculiarly  her  own.  Her  humor  reminds 
me  of  a  bed  of  mignonette,  with  its  delicate  yet  permeating 
fragrance.  One  paragraph,  like  one  spray  of  that  shy 
flower,  scarcely  reveals  the  dainty  flavor. 

From  the  "  Neighbors,"  her  best  story,  and  one  that  still 
has  a  moderate  sale,  I  take  her  description  of  Franziska's 
first  little  lover-like  quarrel  with  her  adoring  husband,  the 
"  Bear."  (Let  us  remember  Miss  Bremer  with  appreciation 
and  gratitude,  as  one  of  the  very  few  visitors  we  have  enter- 
tained who  have  written  kindly  of  our  country  and  our 
"  Homes.") 

THE   FIRST   QUARREL. 

"  Here  I  am  again  sitting  with  a  pen  in  my  hand,  im- 
pelled by  a  desire  for  writing,  yet  with  nothing  particular 


42  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

to  write  about.  Everything  in  the  house  and  in  the  whole 
household  arrangement  is  in  order.  Little  patties  are  bak- 
ing in  the  kitchen,  the  weather  is  oppressively  hot,  and 
every  leaf  and  bird  seem  as  if  deprived  of  motion.  The 
hens  lie  outside  in  the  sand  before  the  window,  the  cock 
stands  solitarily  on  one  leg,  and  looks  upon  his  harem  with 
the  countenance  of  a  sleepy  sultan.  Bear  sits  in  his  room 
writing  letters.  I  hear  him  yawn  ;  that  infects  me.  Oh  ! 
oh  !  I  must  go  and  have  a  little  quarrel  with  him  on  pur- 
pose to  awaken  us  both. 

"  I  want  at  this  moment  a  quire  of  writing-paper  on 
which  to  drop  sugar-cakes.  He  is  terribly  miserly  of  his 
writing-paper,  and  on  that  very  account  I  must  have  some 
now. 

"Later. — All  is  done!  A  complete  quarrel,  and  how 
completely  lively  we  are  after  it  !  You,  Maria,  must  hear 
all,  that  you  may  thus  see  how  it  goes  on  among  married 
people. 

"  I  went  to  my  husband  and  said  quite  meekly,  '  My 
Angel  Bear,  you  must  be  so  very  good  as  to  give  me  a  quire 
of  your  writing-paper  to  drop  sugar-cakes  upon.' 

"He  (in  consternation}.     '  A  quire  of  writing-paper  ? ' 

"She  '  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  of  your  very  best  writing- 
paper.' 

"He.   '  Finest  writing-paper  ?     Are  you  mad  ? ' 

"She.  '  Certainly  not  ;  but  I  believe  you  are  a  little  out 
of  your  senses. ' 

"He.  '  You  covetous  sea-cat,  leave  off  raging  among  my 
papers  !  You  shall  not  have  my  paper  ! ' 

"She.   '  Miserly  beast  !     I  shall  and  will  have  the  paper.' 

"He.   '  "  I  shall  "  !     Listen  a  moment.     Let's  see,  now, 


HUMOR   OF    LITERARY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  43 

how  you  will  accomplish  your  will.'  And  the  rough  Bear 
held  both  my  small  hands  fast  in  his  great  paws. 

"She.  i  You  ugly  Bear  !  You  are  worse  than  any  of 
those  that  walk  on  four  legs.  Let  me  loose  !  Let  me 
loose,  else  I  shall  bite  you  ! '  And  as  he  would  not  let  me 
loose  I  bit  him.  Yes,  Maria,  I  bit  him  really  on  the  hand, 
at  which  he  only  laughed  scornfully  and  said  :  '  Yes,  yes, 
my  little  wife,  that  is  always  the  way  of  those  who  are  for- 
ward without  the  power  to  do.  Take  the  paper.  Now, 
take  it  ! ' 

"She.   i  Ah  !     Let  me  loose  !  let  me  loose  ! ' 

"He.   f  Ask  me  prettily. ' 

"She.   'Dear  Bear!' 

"He.   '  Acknowledge  your  fault.' 

"She.   'I  do.' 

"He.   '  Pray  for  forgiveness.' 

"She.   '  Ah,  forgiveness  !  ' 

"He.   '  Promise  amendment.' 

"She.   l  Oh,  yes,  amendment  !  ' 

"He.  'Nay,  I'll  pardon  you.  But  now,  no  sour  faces, 
dear  wife,  but  throw  your  arms  round  my  neck  and  kiss  me. ' 

"  I  gave  him  a  little  box  on  the  ear,  stole  a  quire  of 
paper,  and  ran  off  with  loud  exultation.  Bear  followed  into 
the  kitchen  growling  horribly  ;  but  then  I  turned  upon  him 
armed  with  two  delicious  little  patties,  which  I  aimed  at  his 
mouth,  and  there  they  vanished.  Bear,  all  at  once,  was 
quite  still,  the  paper  was  forgotten,  and  reconciliation  con- 
cluded. 

"  There  is,  Maria,  no  better  way  of  stopping  the  mouths 
of  these  lords  of  the  creation  than  by  putting  into  them 
something  good  to  eat." 


44:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

I  wish  I  had  room  for  my  favorite  Irishwoman,  Lady 
Morgan,  and  her  description  of  her  first  rout  at  the  house  of 
the  eccentric  Lady  Cork. 

The  off-hand  songs  of  her  sister,  Lady  Clarke,  are  fine 
illustrations  of  rollicking  Irish  writ  and  badinage. 

At  one  of  Lady  Morgan's  receptions,  given  in  honor  of 
fifty  philosophers  from  England,  Lady  Clarke  sang  the  fol- 
lowing song  with  "  great  effect  :" 

FUN   AND   PHILOSOPHY. 

Heigh  for  ould  Ireland  !     Oh,  would  you  require  a  land 

Where  men  by  nature  are  all  quite  the  thing, 
Where  pure  inspiration  has  taught  the  whole  nation 

To  fight,  love,  and  reason,  talk  politics,  sing  ; 
'Tis  Pat's  mathematical,  chemical,  tactical, 

Knowing  and  practical,  fanciful,  gay,  * 

Fun  and  philosophy,  supping  and  sophistry, 

There  s  nothing  in  life  that  is  out  of  his  way. 

He  makes  light  of  optics,  and  sees  through  dioptrics, 

He's  a  dab  at  projectiles— ne'er  misses  his  man  ; 
He  s  complete  in  attraction,  and  quick  at  reaction, 

By  the  doctrine  of  chances  he  squares  every  plan  ; 
In  hydraulics  so  frisky,  the  whole  Bay  of  Biscay, 

If  it  flowed  but  with  whiskey,  he'd  store  it  away. 
Fun  and  philosophy,  supping  and  sophistry, 

There's  nothing  in  life  that  is  out  of  his  way. 

So  to  him  cross  over  savant  and  philosopher, 

Thinking,  God  help  them  !  to  bother  us  all  ; 
But  they'll  find  that  for  knowledge  'tis  at  our  own  college 

Themselves  must  inquire  for-  beds,  dinner,  or  ball. 
There  are  lectures  to  tire,  and  good  lodgings  to  hire, 

To  all  who  require  and  have  money  to  pay  ; 
While  fun  and  philosophy,  supping  and  sophistry, 

Ladies  and  lecturing  fill  up  the  day. 


HUMOR   OF    LITERARY    ENGLISHWOMEN.  4:5 

So  at  the  Rotunda  we  all  sorts  of  fun  do, 

Hard  hearts  and  pig-iron  we  melt  in  one  flame  ; 
For  if  Love  blows  the  bellows,  our  tough  college  fellows 

Will  thaw  into  rapture  at  each  lovely  dame. 
There,  too,  sans  apology,  tea,  tarts,  tautology, 

Are  given  with  zoology,  to  grave  and  gay  ; 
Thus  fun  and  philosophy,  supping  and  sophistry 

Send  all  to  England  home,  happy  and  gay. 


From  George  Eliot,  whose  humor  is  seen  at  its  best  in 
"  Adam  Bede"  and  "  Silas  Marner,"  how  much  we  could 
quote  !  How  some  of  her  searching  comments  cling  to  the 
memory  ! 

"  I've  nothing  to  say  again'  her  piety,  my  dear  ;  but  I 
know  very  well  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  cook  my  victuals. 
When  a  man  coines  in  hungry  and  tired,  piety  won't  feed 
him,  I  reckon.  Hard  carrots  'nil  lie  heavy  on  his  stomach, 
piety  or  no  piety.  I  called  in  one  day  when  she  was  dish- 
in'  up  Mr.  Try  an 's  dinner,  an'  I  could  see  the  potatoes  was 
as  watery  as  watery.  It's  right  enough  to  be  speritial,  I'm 
no  enemy  to  that,  but  I  like  my  potatoes  mealy." 

"  You're  right  there,  Tookey  ;  there's  allays  two  'pin- 
ions :  there's  the  'pinion  a  man  has  of  himsen,  and  there's 
the  'pinion  other  folks  have  on  him.  There'd  be  two  'pin- 
ions about  a  cracked  bell  if  the  bell  could  hear  itself." 

"  You're  mighty  fond  o'  Craig  ;  but  for  my  part,  1  think 
he's  welly  like  a  cock  as  thinks  the  sun's  rose  o'  purpose  to 
hear  him  crow." 

"  When  Mr.  Brooke  had  something  painful  to  tell  it  was 
usually  his  way  to  introduce  it  among  a  number  of  dis- 
jointed particulars,  as  if  it  were  a  medicine  that  would  get 
a  milder  flavor  by  mixing." 


46  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  Heaven  knows  what  would  become  of  our  sociality  if 
we  never  visited  people  we  speak  ill  of  ;  we  should  live  like 
Egyptian  Jierinits,  in  crowded  solitude." 

"  No,  I  ain't  one  to  see  the  cat  walking  into  the  dairy 
and  wonder  what  she's  come  after." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  again'  Craig,  on'y  it  is  a  pity  he 
couldna  be  hatched  o'er  again,  and  hatched  different." 

"  I'm  not  denyin'  the  women  are  foolish  ;  God  Almighty 
made  'em  to  match  the  men." 

"  It's  a  waste  of  time  to  praise  people  dead  whom  you 
maligned  while  living  ;  for  it's  but  a  poor  harvest  you'll 
get  by  watering  last  year's  crop." 

"  I  suppose  Dinah's  like  all  the  rest  of  the  women,  and 
thinks  two  and  two  will  come  to  make  five,  if  she  only  cries 
and  makes  bother  enough  about  it. " 

"  Put  a  good  face  on  it  and  don't  seem  to  be  looking  out 
for  crows,  else  you'll  set  other  people  to  watchin'  for  'em, 
too." 

"  I  took  pretty  good  care,  before  I  said  '  sniff,'  to  be  sure 
she  would  say  'snaff,'  and  pretty  quick,  too.  I  warn't 
a-goin'  to  open  my  mouth  like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and  snap  it  to 
again  wi'  nothin'  to  s waller." 


CHAPTER   III. 

FROM   ANNE   BRADSTREET   TO   MRS.    8TOWE. 

THE  same  gratifying  progress  and  improvement  noticed 
in  the  wit  of  women  of  other  lands  is  seen  in  studying  the 
literary  annals  of  our  own  countrywomen. 

Think  of  Anne  Bradstreet,  Mercy  Warren,  and  Tabitha 
Tenney,  all  extolled  to  the  skies  by  their  contemporaries. 

Mercy  Warren  was  a  satirist  quite  in  the  strain  of  Juve- 
nal, but  in  cumbrous,  artificial  fashion. 

Hon.  John  Winthrop  consulted  her  on  the  proposed  sus- 
pension of  trade  with  England  in  all  but  the  necessaries  of 
life,  and  she  playfully  gives  a  list  of  articles  that  would  be 
included  in  that  word  : 

"  An  inventory  clear 
Of  all  she  needs  Lamira  offers  here  ; 
Nor  does  she  fear  a  rigid  Cato's  frown, 
When  she  lays  by  the  rich  embroidered  gown, 
And  modestly  compounds  for  just  enough, 
Perhaps  some  dozens  of  mere  nighty  stuff  ; 
With  lawns  and  lute  strings,  blonde  and  Mechlin  laces, 
Fringes  and  jewels,  fans  and  tweezer-cases  ; 
Gay  cloaks  and  hat,  of  every  shape  and  size, 
Scarfs,  cardinals,  and  ribands,  of  all  dyes, 
With  ruffles  stamped  and  aprons  of  tambour, 
Tippets  and  handkerchiefs,  at  least  threescore  ; 
With  finest  muslins  that  fair  India  boasts, 
And  the  choice  herbage  from  Chinesian  coasts  : 


4:8  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Add  feathers,  furs,  rich  satin,  and  ducapes, 
And  head-dresses  in  pyramidal  shapes  ; 
Sideboards  of  plate  and  porcelain  profuse, 
With  fifty  dittoes  that  the  ladies  use. 
So  weak  Lamira  and  her  wants  so  few 
Who  can  refuse?  they're  but  the  sex's  due." 

Mrs.  Sigourney,  voluminous  and  mediocre,  is  amusing 
because  so  absolutely  destitute  of  humor,  and  her  style,  a 
feminine  Johnsonese,  is  absurdly  hifalutin  and  strained. 

This  is  the  way  in  which  she  alludes  to  green  apples  : 

"  From  the  time  of  their  first  taking  on  orbicular  shape, 
and  when  it  might  be  supposed  their  hardness  and  acidity 
would  repulse  all  save  elephantine  tusks  and  ostrich  stom- 
achs, they  were  the  prey  of  roaming  children." 

And  in  her  poem  "  To  a  Shred  of  Linen"  : 

"  Methinks  I  scan 

Some  idiosyncrasy  that  marks  thee  out 
A  defunct  pillow-case." 

She  preserved,  however,  a  long  list  of  the  various  solicita- 
tions sent  her  to  furnish  poems  for  special  occasions,  and  I 
think  this  shows  that  she  possessed  a  sense  of  humor.  Let 
me  quote  a  few  : 

"  Some  verses  were  desired  as  an  elegy  on  a  pet  canary 
accidentally  drowned  in  a  barrel  of  swine's  food. 

"  A  poem  requested  on  the  dog-star  Sirius. 

"  To  write  an  ode  for  the  wedding  of  people  in  Maine, 
of  whom  I  had  never  heard. 

"  To  punctuate  a  three-volume  novel  for  an  author  who 
complained  that  the  work  of  punctuating  always  brought 
on  a  pain  in  the  small  of  his  back. 


FKOM   ANNE   BKADSTKEET   TO   MKS.   STOWE.  49 

"  Asked  to  assist  a  servant-man  not  very  well  able  to  read 
in  getting  his  Sunday-school  lessons,  and  to  write  out  all 
the  answers  for  him  clear  through  the  book — to  save  his 
time. 

"  A  lady  whose  husband  expects  to  be  absent  on  a  jour- 
ney for  a  month  or  two  wishes  I  would  write  a  poem  to 
testify  her  joy  at  his  return. 

"  An  elegy  on  a  young  man,  one  of  the  nine  children  of 
a  judge  of  probate." 

Miss  Sedgwick,  in  her  letters,  occasionally  showed  a  keen 
sense  of  humor,  as,  when  speaking  of  a  certain  novel,  she 
eaid  : 

"  There  is  too  much  force  for  the  subject.  It  is  as  if  a 
railroad  should  be  built  and  a  locomotive  started  to  transport 
skeletons,  specimens,  and  one  bird  of  Paradise." 

Mrs.  Caroline  Gilrnan,  born  in  1794,  and  still  living, 
author  of  "  Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron,"  etc.,  will 
be  represented  by  one  playful  poem,  .which  has  a  veritable 
New  England  flavor  : 

JOSHUA'S   COURTSHIP. 

A   NZW    ENGLAND    BALLAD. 

Stout  Joshua  was  a  farmer's  son, 

And  a  pondering  he  sat 
One  night  when  the  fagots  crackling  burned, 

And  purred  the  tabby  cat. 

Joshua  was  a  well-grown  youth, 

As  one  might  plainly  see 
By  the  sleeves  that  vainly  tried  to  reach 

His  hands  upon  his  knee. 


50  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

His  splay -feet  stood  all  parrot-toed 

In  cowhide  shoes  arrayed, 
And  his  hair  seemed  cut  across  his  brow 

By  rule  and  plummet  laid. 

And  what  was  Joshua  pondering  on, 
With  his  widely  staring  eyes, 

And  his  nostrils  opening  sensibly 
To  ease  his  frequent  sighs  ? 

Not  often  will  a  lover's  lips 

The  tender  secret  tell, 
But  out  he  spoke  before  he  thought, 

"  My  gracious  !     Nancy  Bell !" 

His  mother  at  her  spinning-wheel, 
Good  woman,  stood  and  spun, 

"  And  what,"  says  she,  "  is  come  o'er  you, 
Is't  airnest  or  is't  fun  ?" 

Then  Joshua  gave  a  cunning  look, 
Half  bashful  and  half  sporting, 

"  Now  what  did  father  do,"  says  he, 
"  When  first  he  came  a  courting?" 

"  Why,  Josh,  the  first  thing  that  he  did," 
With  a  knowing  wink,  said  she, 

"  He  dressed  up  of  a  Sunday  night, 
And  cast  sheep's  eyes  at  me." 

Josh  said  no  more,  but  straight  went  out 
And  sought  a  butcher's  pen, 

Where  twelve  fat  sheep,  for  market  bound, 
Had  lately  slaughtered  been. 

He  bargained  with  a  lover's  zeal, 
Obtained  the  wished-for  prize, 

And  filled  his  pockets  fore  and  aft 
With  twice  twelve  bloody  eyes. 


FKOM    ANNE   BEADSTKEET   TO   MUS.    STOWE.  51 

The  next  night  was  the  happy  time 

When  all  New  England  sparks, 
Drest  in  their  best,  go  out  to  court,  • 

As  spruce  and  gay  as  larks. 

When  floors  are  nicely  sanded  o'er, 

When  tins  and  pewter  shine, 
And  milk-pans  by  the  kitchen  wall 

Display  their  dainty  line  ; 

While  the  new  ribbon  decks  the  waist 

Of  many  a  waiting  lass, 
Who  steals  a  conscious  look  of  pride 

Toward  her  answering  glass. 

In  pensive  mood  sat  Nancy  Bell  ; 

Of  Joshua  thought  not  she, 
But  of  a  hearty  sailor  lad 

Across  the  distant  sea. 

Her  arm  upon  the  table  rests, 

Her  hand  supports  her  head, 
When  Joshua  enters  with  a  scrape, 

And  somewhat  bashful  tread. 

No  word  he  spake,  but  down  he  sat, 

And  heaved  a  doleful  sigh, 
Then  at  the  table  took  his  aim 

And  rolled  a  glassy  eye. 

Another  and  another  flew, 

With  quick  and  strong  rebound, 
They  tumbled  in  poor  Nancy's  lap, 

They  fell  upon  the  ground. 

While  Joshua  smirked,  and  sighed,  and  smiled 

Between  each  tender  aim, 
And  still  the  cold  and  bloody  balls 

In  frightful  quickness  came. 


52  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Until  poor  Nancy  flew  with  screams, 

To  shun  the  amorous  sport, 
And  Joshua  found  to  cast  sheep's  eyes 

Was  not  the  way  to  court. 

"  Fanny  Forrester"  and  "  Fanny  Fern"  both  delighted 
the  public  with  individual  styles  of  writing,  vastly  success- 
ful when  a  new  thing. 

When  wanting  a  new  dress  and  bonnet,  as  every  woman 
will  in  the  spring  (or  any  time),  Fanny  Forrester  wrote  to 
Willis,  of  the  New  Mirror,  an  appeal  which  he  called 
"  very  clever,  adroit,  and  fanciful." 

"  You  know  the  shops  in  Broadway  are  very  tempting 
this  season.  Such  beautiful  things  !  Well,  you  know 
(no,  you  don't  know  that,  but  you  can  guess)  what  a  de- 
lightful thing  it  would  be  to  appear  in  one  of  those 
charming,  head-adorning,  complexion-softening,  hard-feat- 
ure-subduing Neapolitans,  with  a  little  gossamer  veil  drop- 
ping daintily  on  the  shoulder  of  one  of  those  exquisite  bal- 
zarines,  to  be  seen  any  day  at  Stewart's  and  elsewhere. 
Well,  you  know  (this  you  must  know)  that  shopkeepers 
have  the  impertinence  to  demand  a  trifling  exchange  for 
these  things,  even  of  a  lady  ;  and  also  that  some  people 
have  a  remarkably  small  purse,  and  a  remarkably  small 
portion  of  the  yellow  "  root"  in  that.  And  now,  to  bring 
the  matter  home,  I  am  one  of  that  class.  1  have  the 
most  beautiful  little  purse  in  the  world,  but  it  is  only  kept 
for  show,  i  even  find  myself  under  the  necessity  of  coun- 
terfeiting— that  is,  filling  the  void  with  tissue-paper  in  lieu 
of  bank-notes,  preparatory  to  a  shopping  expedition.  Well, 
now  to  the  point.  As  Bel  and  I  snuggled  down  on  the  sofa 


FKOM    ANNE    BKADSTKEET    TO    MRS.    STOWE.  53 

this  morning  to  read  the  New  Mirror  (by  the  way,  Cousin 
Bel  is  ne'ver  obliged  to  put  tissue-paper  in  her  purse),  it 
struck  us  that  you  would  be  a  friend  in  need,  and  give  good 
counsel  in  this  emergency.  Bel,  however,  insisted  on  my 
not  telling  what  I  wanted  the  money  for.  She  even 
thought  that  I  had  better  intimate  orphanage,  extreme 
suffering  from  the  bursting  of  some  speculative  bubble, 
illness,  etc.  ;  but  did  I  not  know  you  better  ?  Have  I  read 
the  New  Mirror  so  much  (to  say  nothing  of  the  graceful 
things  coined  under  a  bridge,  and  a  thousand  other  pages 
flung  from  the  inner  heart)  and  not  learned  who  has  an  eye 
for  everything  pretty  ?  Not  so  stupid,  Cousin  Bel,  no, 
no  !  .*.  . 

"  And  to  the  point.  Maybe  you  of  the  New  Mirror 
PAY  for  acceptable  articles,  maybe  not.  Comprenez 
vousf  Oh,  I  do  hope  that  beautiful  lalzarine  like  Bel's 
will  not  be  gone  before  another  Saturday  !  You  will  not 
forget  to  answer  me  in  the  next  Mirror  •  but  pray,  my 
dear  Editor,  let,  it  be  done  very  cautiously,  for  Bel  would 
pout  all  day  if  she  should  know  what  I  have  written. 

"  Till  Saturday,  your  anxiously-waiting  friend, 

"FANNY  FORRESTER." 

Such  a  note  received  by  an  editor  of  this  generation 
would  promptly  fall  into  the  waste-basket.  But  Willis  was 
captivated,  and  answered  : 

"  "Well,  we  give  in  !  On  condition  that  you  are  under 
twenty-five  and  that  you  will  wear  a  rose  (recognizably)  in 
your  bodice  the  first  time  you  appear  in  Broadway  with  the 
hat  and  baharine,  we  will  pay  the  bills.  Write  us  there- 
after a  sketch  of  Bel  and  yourself  as  cleverly  done  as  this 


54:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

letter,  and  yon  may  '  snuggle  '  down  on  the  sofa  and  con- 
sider us  paid,  and  the  public  charmed  with  you." 

This  style  of  ingratiating  one's  self  with  an  editor  is  as 
much  a  bygone  as  an  alliterative  pen-name. 

Fanny  Fern  (Sarah  Willis  Parton)  also  established  a  style 
of  her  own — "  a  new  kind  of  composition  ;  short,  pointed 
paragraphs,  without  beginning  and  without  end — one  clear, 
ringing  note,  and  then  silence." 

Her  talent  for  humorous  composition  showed  itself  in  her 
essays  at  school.  I'll  give  a  bit  from  her  "  Suggestions  on 
Arithmetic  after  Cramming  for  an  Examination"  : 

"  Every  incident,  every  object  of  sight  seemed  to  pro- 
duce an  arithmetical  result.  I  once  saw  a  poor  wretch  evi- 
dently intoxicated  ;  thought  1,  '  That  man  has  overcome 
three  scruples,  to  say  the  least,  for  three  scruples  make  one 
dram.'  Even  the  Sabbath  was  no  day  of  rest  for  me — the 
psalms,  prayers,  and  sermons  were  all  translated  by  me  into 
the  language  of  arithmetic.  A  good  man^  spoke  very  feel- 
ingly upon  the  manner  in  which  our  cares  and  perplexities 
were  multiplied  by  riches.  Muttered  I  :  '  That,  sir,  de- 
pends upon  whether  the  multiplier  is  a  fraction  or  a  whole 
number  ;  for  if  it  be  a  fraction,  it  makes  the  product  less.' 
And  when  another,  lamenting  the  various  divisions  of  the 
•Church,  pathetically  exclaimed  :  '  And  how  shall  we  unite 
.these  several  denominations  in  one  ? ' 

"  '  Why,  reduce  them  to  a  common  denominator,'  ex- 
claimed I,  half  aloud,  wondering  at  his  ignorance. 

' l  And  when  an  admiring  swain  protested  his  warm  '  in- 
terest, '  he  brought  only  one  word  that  chimed  with  my 
train  of  thought. 


FROM    ANNE    BRADSTREET   TO   MRS.   STOWE.  55 

"  '  Interest  ? '  exclaimed  I,  starting  from  my  reverie. 
'  What  per  cent,  sir  ?  ' 

' '  '  Ma'am  2 '  exclaimed  my  attendant,  in  the  greatest 
possible  amazement. 

"  '  How  much  per  cent,  sir  ? '  said  I,  repeating  my  ques- 
tion. 

"His  reply  was  lost  on  my  ear  save:  'Madam,  at  any 
rate  do  not  trifle  with  my  feelings. ' 

"  '  At  any  rate,  did  you  say  ?  Then  take  six  per  cent  ; 
that  is  the  easiest  to  calculate.'  : 

Her  style,  too,  has  gone  out  of  fashion  ;  but  in  its  day  it 
was  thought  very  amusing. 

Mrs.  Stowe  needs  no  introduction,  and  she  is  another  of 
those  from  whom  we  quote  little,  because  she  could  con- 
tribute so  much,  and  one  does  not  know  where  to  choose. 
Her  ' '  Sam  Lawson' '  is,  perhaps,  the  most  familiar  of  her 
odd  characters  and  talkers. 

SAM  LAWSON'S  SAYINGS. 

""Well,  Sam,  what  did  you  think  of  the  sermon  ?"  said 
Uncle  Bill. 

"  Wall,"  said  Sam,  leaning  over  the  fire  with  his  long, 
bony  hands  alternately  raised  to  catch  the  warmth,  and  then 
dropped  with  an  utter  laxness  when  the  warmth  became  too 
pronounced,  "  Parson  Simpson's  a  smart  man  ;  but  I  tell 
ye,  it's  kind  o'  discouragin' .  Why,  he  said  our  state  and 
condition  by  natur  war  just  like  this  :  We  war  clear  down 
in  a  well  fifty  feet  deep,  and  the  sides  all  round  nothin'  but 
glare  ice  ;  but  we  war  under  immediate  obligations  to  get 


56  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

out,  'cause  we  war  free,  voluntary  agents.  But  nobody  ever 
had  got  out,  and  nobody  would,  unless  the  Lord  reached 
down  and  took  'em.  And  whether  he  would  or  not  nobody 
could  tell  ;  it  was  all  sovereignty.  lie  said  there  warn't 
one  in  a  hundred,  not  one  in  a  thousand,  not  one  in  ten 
thousand,  that  would  be  saved.  '  Lordy  massy,'  says  I  to 
myself,  '  ef  that's  so  they're  any  of  'em  welcome  to  my 
chance.'  And  so  I  kind  o'  ris  up  and  come  out,  'cause 
I'd  got  a  pretty  long  walk  home,  and  1  wanted  to  go  round 
by  South  Pond  and  inquire  about  Aunt  Sally  Morse's 
toothache."  .  .  . 

11  This  'ere  Miss  Sphyxy  Smith's  a  rich  old  gal,  and 
'mazin'  smart  to  work,"  he  began.  "  Tell  you,  she  holds 
all  she  gets.  Old  Sol,  he  told  me  a  story  'bout  her  that 
was  a  pretty  good  un." 

"  What  was  it  ?"  said  my  grandmother. 

"  Wai,  ye  see,  you  'member  old  Parson  Jeduthun  Ken- 
dall that  lives  up  in  Stonytown  ;  he  lost  his  wife  a  year  ago 
last  Thanksgivin',  and  he  thought  'twar  about  time  he  hed 
another ;  so  he  comes  down  and  consults  our  Parson 
Lothrop.  Says  he  :  'I  want  a  good,  smart,  neat,  economi- 
cal woman,  with  a  good  property.  I  don't  care  notbin' 
about  her  bein'  handsome.  In  fact,  I  ain't  particular 
about  anything  else,'  says  he.  Wai,  Parson  Lothrop,  says 
he  :  '  I  think,  if  that's  the  case,  1  know  jest  the  woman  to 
suit  ye.  She  owns  a  clear,  handsome  property,  and  she's 
neat  and  economical  ;  but  she's  no  beauty  ! '  '  Oh,  beauty 
is  nothin'  to  me,'  says  Parson  Kendall  ;  and  so  he  took  the 
direction.  Wai,  one  day  he  hitched  up  his  old  one-hoss 
shay,  and  kind  o'  brushed  up,  and  started  off  a-courtin'. 
Wai,  the  parson  come  to  the  house,  and  he  war  tickled  to 


* 

FKOM   ANNE   BRADSTREET   TO   MRS.   STOWE.  57 

pieces  with  the  looks  o'  things  outside,  'cause  the  house  is 
all  well  shingled  and  painted,  and  there  ain't  a  picket  loose 
nor  a  nail  wantin'  nowhere. 

"  '  This  'ere's  the  woman  for  me,'  says  Parson  Kendall. 
So  he  goes  up  and  raps  hard  on  the  front  door  with  his 
whip-handle.  Wai,  you  see,  Miss  Sphyxy  she  war  jest 
goin'  out  to  help  get  in  her  hay.  She  had  on  a  pair  o' 
clompin'  cowhide  boots,  and  a  pitchfork  in  her  hand,  jest 
goin'  out,  when  she  heard  the  rap.  So  she  come  jest  as  she 
was  to  the  front  door.  Now,  you  know  Parson  Kendall's  a 
little  midget  of  a  man,  hut  he  stood  there  on  the  step  kind 
o'  smilin'  and  genteel,  lickin'  his  lips  and  lookin'  so  agree- 
able !  Wai,  the  front  door  kind  o'  stuck — front  doors  gen- 
erally do,  ye  know,  'cause  they  ain't  opened  very  often — 
and  Miss  Sphyxy  she  had  to  pull  and  haul  and  put  to  all 
her  strength,  and  finally  it  come  open  with  a  bang,  and  she 
'peared  to  the  parson,  pitchfork  and  all,  sort  o'  frownin' 
like. 

"  l  What  do  you  want  ? '  says  she  ;  fer,  you  see,  Miss 
Sphyxy  ain't  no  ways  tender  to  the  men. 

"  '  I  want  to  see  Miss  Asphyxia  Smith,'  says  he,  very 
civil,  thinking  she  war  the  hired  gal. 

"  '  Pm  Miss  Asphyxia  Smith,'  says  she.  '  What  do  you 
want  o'  me  ?  ' 

"  Parson  Kendall  he  jest  took  one  good  look  on  her, 
from  top  to  toe.  'Noram','  says  he,  and  turned  right 
round  and  went  down  the  steps  like  lightnin'." 

Years  ago  Mrs.  Stowe  published  some  capital  stories  of 
New  England  life,  which  were  collected  in  a  little  volume 
called  "  The  Mayflower,"  a  book  which  is  now  seldom  seen, 


58  THE   WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

and  almost  unknown  to  the  present  generation.  From  this  I 
take  her  "Night  in  a  Canal-Boat."  Extremely  effective 
when  read  with  enthusiasm  and  proper  variety  of  tone. 
I  quote  it  as  a  boon  for  the  boys  and  girls  who  are  often 
looking  for  something  "  funny"  to  read  aloud. 

THE   CANAL-BOAT. 

BY    HARRIET    BEECHER   STOWE. 

Of  all  the  ways  of  travelling  which  obtain  among  our 
locomotive  nation,  this  said  vehicle,  the  canal-boat,  is  the 
most  absolutely  prosaic  and  inglorious.  There  is  something 
picturesque,  nay,  almost  sublime,  in  the  lordly  march  of 
your  well-built,  high-bred  steamboat.  Go  take  your  stand 
on  some  overhanging  bluff,  where  the  blue  Ohio  winds  its 
thread  of  silver,  or  the  sturdy  Mississippi  tears  its  path 
through  unbroken  forests,  and  it  will  do  your  heart  good  to 
see  the  gallant  boat  walking  the  waters  with  unbroken  and 
powerful  tread,  and,  like  some  fabled  monster  of  the  wave, 
breathing  fire  and  making  the  shores  resound  with  its  deep 
respirations.  Then  there  is  something  mysterious — even 
awful — in  the  power  of  steam.  See  it  curling  up  against  a 
blue  sky  some  rosy  morning,  graceful,  floating,  intangible, 
and  to  all  appearance  the  softest  and  gentlest  of  all  spiritual 
things,  and  then  think  that  it  is  this  fairy  spirit  that  keeps 
all  the  world  alive  and  hot  with  motion  ;  think  how  excel- 
lent a  servant  it  is,  doing  all  sorts  of  gigantic  works,  like 
the  genii  of  old  ;  and  yet,  if  you  let  slip  the  talisman  only 
for  a  moment,  what  terrible  advantage  it  will  take  of  you  ! 
and  you  will  confess  that  steam  has  some  claims  both  to  the 
beautiful  and  the  terrible  !  For  our  own  part,  when  we  are 


FROM    ANNE    BRADSTREET    TO    MRS.    STOWE.  59 

down  among  the  machinery  of  a  steamboat  in  full  play,  we 
conduct  ourselves  very  reverently,  for  we  consider  it  as 
a  very  serious  neighborhood,  and  every  time  the  steam 
whizzes  with  such  red-hot  determination  from  the  escape- 
valve,  we  start  as  if  some  of  the  spirits  were  after  us.  But 
in  a  canal-boat  there  is  no  power,  no  mystery,  no  danger  ; 
one  cannot  blow  up,  one  cannot  be  drowned — unless  by 
some  special  effort  ;  one  sees  clearly  all  there  is  in  the 
case — a  horse,  a  rope,  and  a  muddy  strip  of  water — and 
that  is  all. 

Did  you  ever  try  it,  reader  ?  If  not,  take  an  imaginary 
trip  with  us,  just  for  experiment.  "  There's  the  boat  !" 
exclaims  a  passenger  in  the  omnibus,  as  we  are  rolling 
down  from  the  Pittsburg  Mansion  House  to  the  canal. 
"  Where  ?"  exclaim  a  dozen  of  voices,  and  forthwith  a 
dozen  heads  go  out  of  the  window.  "  Why,  down  there, 
under  that  bridge  ;  don't  you  see  those  lights  ?"  "  What, 
that  little  thing  !"  exclaims  an  inexperienced  traveller  ; 
"  dear  me  !  we  can't  half  of  us  get  "into  it  !''  "  We  !  in- 
deed," says  some  old  hand  in  the  business  ;  "  I  think  you'll 
find  it  will  hold  us  and  a  dozen  more  loads  like  us."  "  Im- 
possible !"  say  some.  "  You'll  see,"  say  the  initiated  ;  and 
as  soon  as  you  get  out  you  do  see,  and  hear,  too,  what  seems 
like  a  general  breaking  loose  from  the  Tower  of  Babel, 
amid  a  perfect  hail-storm  of  trunks,  boxes,  valises,  carpet- 
bags, and  every  describable  and  indescribable  form  of  what 
a  Westerner  calls  "  plunder." 

"  That's  my  trunk  !"  barks  out  a  big,  round  man. 
"  That's  my  bandbox  !"  screams  a  heart-stricken  old  lady, 
in  terror  for  her  immaculate  Sunday  caps.  "  Where's  my 
little  red  box  ?  1  had  two  carpet-bags  and  a —  My  trunk 


60  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

had  a  scarle —  Halloo  !  where  are  you  going  with  that 
portmanteau  ?  Husband  !  Husband  !  do  see  after  the 
large  basket  and  the  little  hair-trunk- — •  Oh,  and  the 

O 

baby's  little  chair  !"  "  Go  below,  go  below,  for  mercy's 
sake,  my  dear  ;  I'll  see  to  the  baggage."  At  last  the  femi- 
nine part  of  creation,  perceiving  that,  in  this  particular  in- 
stance, they  gain  nothing  by  public  speaking,  are  content 
to  be  led  quietly  under  hatches  ;  and  amusing  is  the  look  of 
dismay  which  each  new-comer  gives  to  the  confined  quar- 
ters that  present  themselves.  Those  who  were  so  ignorant 
of  the  power  of  compression  as  to  suppose  the  boat  scarce 
large  enough  to  contain  them  and  theirs,  find,  with  dismay, 
a  respectable  colony  of  old  ladies,  babies,  mothers,  big 
baskets,  and  carpet-bags  already  established.  "  Mercy  on 
us  !"  says  one,  after  surveying  the  little  room,  about  ten 
feet  long  and  six  feet  high,  "  where  are  we  all  to  sleep  to- 
night ?"  "  Oh,  me,  what  a  sight  of  children  !"  says  a 
young  lady,  in  a  despairing  tone.  "  Pooh  !"  says  an  initi- 
ated traveller,  "  children  !  scarce  any  here  ;  let's  see  :  one  ; 
the  woman  in  the  corner,  two  ;  that  child  with  the  bread 
and  butter,  three  ;  and  then  there's  that  other  woman  with 
two.  Really,  it's  quite  moderate  for  a  canal -boat.  How- 
ever, we  can't  tell  till  they  have  all  come." 

"  All  !  for  mercy's  sake,  you  don't  say  there  are  any 
more  coming  !"  exclaim  two  or  three  in  a  breath  ;  "  they 
can't  come  ;  there  -is  not  room  /" 

Notwithstanding  the  impressive  utterance  of  this  sentence 
the  contrary  is  immediately  demonstrated  by  the  appearance 
of  a  very  corpulent  elderly  lady  with  three  well-grown 
daughters,  who  come  down  looking  about  them  most  com- 
placently, entirely  regardless  of  the  unchristian  looks  of  the 


FROM    ANNE    BRADSTEEET    TO    MRS.   STO\VE.  61 

company.  What  a  mercy  it  is  that  fat  people  are  always 
good-natured  ! 

After  this  follows  an  indiscriminate  raining  down  of  all 
shapes,  sizes,  sexes,  and  ages — men,  women,  children, 
babies,  and  nurses.  The  state  of  feeling  becomes  perfectly 
desperate.  Darkness  gathers  on  all  faces.  "  We  shall  be 
smothered  !  we  shall  be  crowded  to  death  !  we  can't  stay 
here  !"  are  heard  faintly  from  one  and  another  ;  and  yet, 
though  the  boat  grows  no  wider,  the  walls  no  higher,  they 
do  live,  and  do  stay  there,  in  spite  of  repeated  protestations 
to  the  contrary.  Truly,  as  Sam  Slick  says,  "  there's  a  sight 
of  wear  in  human  natur'!" 

But  meanwhile  the  children  grow  sleepy,  and  divers  in- 
teresting little  duets  and  trios  arise  from  one  part  or  another 
of  the  cabin. 

"  Hush,  Johnny  !  be  a  good  boy,"  says  a  pale,  nursing 
mamma,  to  a  great,  bristling,  white-headed  phenomenon, 
who  is  kicking  very  much  at  large  in  her  lap.  f 

"  I  won't  be  a  good  boy,  neither,"  responds  Johnny, 
with  interesting  explicitness  ;  "  I  want  to  go  to  bed,  and 
so-o-o-o  !"  and  Johnny  makes  up  a  mouth  as  big  as  a  tea- 
cup, and  roars  with  good  courage,  and  his  mamma  asks  him 
"if  he  ever  saw  pa  do  so,"  and  tells  him  that  "he  is 
mamma's  dear,  good  little  boy,  and  must  not  make  a 
noise,"  with  various  observations  of  the  kind,  which  are  so 
strikingly  efficacious  in  such  cases.  Meanwhile  the  do- 
mestic concert  in  other  quarters  proceeds  with  vigor. 
"  Mamma,  I'm  tired  !"  bawls  a  child.  "  Where's  the 
baby's  nightgown  ?"  calls  a  nurse.  "  Do  take  Peter  up  in 
your  lap,  and  keep  him  still."  "Pray  get  out  some  bis- 
cuits to  stop  their  mouths."  Meanwhile  sundry  babies 


62  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

strike  in  con  spirito,  as  the  music-books  have  it,  and  execute 
various  flourishes  ;  the  disconsolate  mothers  sigh,  and  look 
as  if  all  was  over  with  them  ;  and  the  young  ladies  appear 
extremely  disgusted,  and  wonder  "  what  business  women 
have  to  be  travelling  round  with  children." 

To  these  troubles  succeeds  the  turning-out  scene,  when 
the  whole  caravan  is  ejected  into  the  gentlemen's  cabin, 
that  the  beds  may  be  made.  The  red  curtains  are  put 
down,  and  in  solemn  silence  all  the  last  mysterious  prepara- 
tions begin.  At  length  it  is  announced  that  all  is  ready. 
Forthwith  the  whole  company  rush  back,  and  find  the  walls 
embellished  by  a  series  of  little  shelves,  about  a  foot  wide, 
each  furnished  with  a  mattress  and  bedding,  and  hooked  to 
the  ceiling  by  a  very  suspiciously  slender  cord.  Direful 
are  the  ruminations  and  exclamations  of  inexperienced 
travellers,  particularly  young  ones,  as  they  eye  these  very 
equivocal  accommodations.  "What,  sleep  up  there!  / 
won't  sleep  on  one  of  those  top  shelves,  /  know.  The 
cords  will  certainly  break."  The  chambermaid  here  takes 
up  the  conversation,  and  solemnly  assures  them  that  such 
an  accident  is  not  to  be  thought  of  at  all  ;  that  it  is  a  natu- 
ral impossibility — a  thing  that  could  not  happen  without  an 
actual  miracle  ;  and  since  it  becomes  increasingly  evident 
that  thirty  ladies  cannot  all  sleep  on  the  lowest  shelf,  there 
is  some  effort  made  to  exercise  faith  in  this  doctrine  ;  never- 
theless all  look  on  their  neighbors  with  fear  and  trembling  ; 
and  when  the  stout  lady  talks  of  taking  a  shelf,  she  is  most 
urgently  pressed  to  change  places  with  her  alarmed  neigh- 
bor below.  Points  of  location  being  after  a  while  adjusted, 
comes  the  last  struggle.  Everybody  wants  to  take  oif  a 
bonnet,  or  look  for  a  shawl,  to  find  a  cloak,  or  get  a  carpet- 


FROM   ANNE   BRADSTREET   TO   MRS.   STOWE.  63 

bag,  and  all  set  about  it  with  such  zeal  that  nothing  can  be 
done.  "Ma'am,  you're  on  my  foot  !"  says  one.  "  "Will 
you  please  to  move,  ma'am  ?"  says  somebody,  who  is  gasp- 
ing and  struggling  behind  you.  "  Move  !"  you  echo. 
"  Indeed,  1  should  be  very  glad  to,  but  I  don't  see  much 
prospect  of  it."  "  Chambermaid  !"  calls  a  lady  who  is 
struggling  among  a  heap  of  carpet-bags  and  children  at  one 
end  of  the  cabin.  "  Ma'am  !"  echoes  the  poor  chamber- 
maid, who  is  wedged  fast  in  a  similar  situation  at  the  other. 
"  Where's  my  cloak,  chambermaid  ?"  "  I'd  find  it, 
ma'am,  if  1  could  move."  "  Chambermaid,  my  basket  !" 
"  Chambermaid,  my  parasol  !"  "  Chambermaid,  my  carpet- 
bag !"  "  Mamma,  they  push  ine  so  !"  "  Hush,  child  ; 
crawl  under  there  and  lie  still  till  I  can  undress  you."  At 
last,  however,  the  various  distresses  are  over,  the  babies 
sink  to  sleep,  and  even  that  much-enduring  being,  the 
chambermaid,  seeks  out  some  corner  for  repose.  Tired 
and  drowsy,  you  are  just  sinking  into  a  doze,  when,  bang  ! 
goes  the  boat  against  the  sides  of  a  lock  ;  ropes  scrape,  men 
run  and  shout,'  and  up  fly  the  heads  of  all  the  top-shelfites, 
who  are  generally  the  more  juvenile  and  airy  part  of  the 
company. 

"  What's  that  !  what's  that  !"  flies  from  mouth  to 
mouth  ;  and  forthwith  they  proceed  to  awaken  their  re- 
spective relations.  "  Mother  !  Aunt  Hannah  !  do  wake 
up;  what  is  this  awful  noise?"  "Oh,  only  a  lock." 
"  Pray,  be  still,"  groan  out  the  sleepy  members  from  below. 

"  A  lock  !"  exclaim  the  vivacious  creatures,  ever  on  the 
alert  for  information  ;  "  and  what  is  a  lock,  pray  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  what  a  lock  is,  you  silly  creatures. 
Do  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep." 


64:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  But  say,  there  ain't  any  danger  in  a  lock,  is  there  ?" 
respond  the  querists.  "  Danger  !"  exclaims  a  deaf  old 
lady,  poking  up  her  head.  "What's  the  matter?  There 
hain't  nothing  burst,  has  there  ?"  "  No,  no,  no  !"  exclaim 
the  provoked  and  despairing  opposition  party,  who  find  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  going  to  sleep  till  they  have  made 
the  old  lady  below  and  the  young  ladies  above  understand 
exactly  the  philosophy  of  a  lock.  After  a  while  the  con- 
versation again  subsides  ;  again  all  is  still  ;  you  hear  only 
the  trampling  of  horses  and  the  rippling  of  the  rope  in  the 
water,  and  sleep  again  is  stealing  over  you.  You  doze,  you 
dream,  and  all  of  a  sudden  you  are  startled  by  a  cry, 
"  Chambermaid  !  wake  up  the  lady  that  wants  to  be  set 
ashore."  Up  jumps  chambermaid,  and  up  jump  the  lady 
and  two  children,  and  forthwith  form  a  committee  of  in- 
quiry as  to  ways  and  means.  "  Where's  my  bonnet  ?"  says 
the  lady,  half  awake  and  fumbling  among  the  various  articles 
of  that  name.  "  1  thought  I  hung  it  up  behind  the  door." 
"  Can't  you  find  it  ?"  says  the  poor  chambermaid,  yawning 
and  rubbing  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  yes,  here  it  is,"  says  the 
lady  ;  and  then  the  cloak,  the  shawl,  the  gloves,  the  shoes, 
receive  each  a  separate  discussion.  At  last  all  seems  ready, 
and  they  begin  to  move  off,  when  lo  !  Peter's  cap  is  miss- 
ing. "  Now,  where  can  it  be  ?"  soliloquizes  the  lady.  "  I 
put  it  right  here  by  the  table-leg  ;  maybe  it  got  into  some 
of  the  berths."  At  this  suggestion  the  chambermaid  takes 
the  candle,  and  goes  round  deliberately  to  every  berth, 
poking  the  light  directly  in  the  face  of  every  sleeper. 
"Here  it  is,"  she  exclaims,  pulling  at  something  black 
under  one  pillow.  "No,  indeed,  those  are  my  shoes," 
says  the  vexed  sleeper.  "  Maybe  it's  here."  she  resumes, 


FROM    AXNE    BKADSTREET    TO    MRS.   STOWE.  65 

darting  upon  something  dark  in  another  berth.  "  No, 
that's  my  bag,"  responds  the  occupant.  The  chambermaid 
then  proceeds  to  turn  over  all  the  children  on  the  floor,  to 
see  if  it  is  not  under  them.  In  the  course  of  which  process 
they  are  most  agreeably  waked  up  and  enlivened  ;  and 
when  everybody  is  broad  awake,  and  most  uncharitably 
wishing  the  cap,  and  Peter  too,  at  the  bottom  of  the  canal, 
the  good  lady  exclaims,  "  "Well,  if  this  isn't  lucky  ;  here  I 
had  it  safe  in  my  basket  all  the  time  !"  And  she  departed 
amid  the — what  shall  I  say  ?  execrations  ! — of  the  whole 
company,  ladies  though  they  be. 

Well,  after  this  follows  a  hushing  up  and  wiping  up 
among  the  juvenile  population,  and  a  series  of  remarks 
commences  from  the  various  shelves  of  a  very  edifying  and 
instructive  tendency.  One  says  that  the  woman  did  not 
seem  to  know  where  anything  was  ;  another  says  that  she  has 
waked  them  all  up  ;  a  third  adds  that  she  has  waked  up  all 
the  children,  too  ;  and  the  elderly  ladies  make  moral  reflec- 
tions on  the  importance  of  putting  your  things  where  you 
can  find  them — being  always  ready  ;  which  observations, 
being  delivered  in  an  exceedingly  doleful  and  drowsy  tone, 
form  a  sort  of  sub-bass  to  the  lively  chattering  of  the  upper- 
shelfites,  who  declare  that  they  feel  quite  awake — that  they 
don't  think  they  shall  go  to  sleep  again  to-night,  and  dis- 
course over  everything  in  creation,  until  you  heartily  wish 
you  were  enough  related  to  them  to  give  them  a  scolding. 

At  last,  however,  voice  after  voice  drops  off  ;  you  fall 
into  a  most  refreshing  slumber  ;  it  seems  to  you  that  you 
sleep  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  chambermaid 
pulls  you  by  the  sleeve.  ' '  Will  you  please  to  get  up, 
ma'am?  We  want  to  make  the  beds."  You  start  and 


Ob  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

stare.  Sure  enough,  the  night  is  gone.  So  much  for 
sleeping  on  board  canal-boats  ! 

Let  us  not  enumerate  the  manifold  perplexities  of  the 
morning  toilet  in  a  place  where  every  lady  realizes  most 
forcibly  the  condition  of  the  old  woman  who  lived  under  a 
broom  :  u  All  she  wanted  was  elbow-room. "  Let  us  not 
tell  how  one  glass  is  made  to  answer  for  thirty  fair  faces, 
one  ewer  and  vase  for  thirty  lavations  ;  and — tell  it  not  in 
Gath — one  towel  for  a  company  !  Let  us  not  intimate  how 
ladies'  shoes  have,  in  a  night,  clandestinely  slid  into  the 
gentlemen's  cabin,  and  gentlemen's  boots  elbowed,  or, 
rather,  toed  their  way  among  ladies'  gear,  nor  recite  the  ex- 
clamations after  runaway  property  that  are  heard. 

"  I  can't  find  nothing  of  Johnny's  shoe  !"  "  Here's  a 
shoe  in  the  water-pitcher — is  this  it?"  "My  side-combs 
are  gone  !"  exclaims  a  nymph  with  dishevelled  curls. 
"Massy!  do  look  at  my  bonnet!"  exclaims  an  old  lady, 
elevating  an  article  crushed  into  as  many  angles  as  there  are 
pieces  in  a  mince-pie.  "  I  never  did  sleep  so  much  to- 
gether in  my  life,"  echoes  a  poor  little  French  lady,  whom 
despair  has  driven  into  talking  English. 

But  our  shortening  paper  warns  us  not  to  prolong  our 
catalogue  of  distresses  beyond  reasonable  bounds,  and  there- 
fore we  will  close  with  ad  vising,  all  our  friends,  who  intend 
to  try  this  way  of  travelling  for  pleasure,  to  take  a  good 
stock  both  of  patience  and  clean  towels  with  them,  for  we 
think  that  they  will  find  abundant  need  for  both. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

"  SAMPLES  "  HERE  AND  THEEE. 

NEXT  comes  Mrs.  Caroline  M.  Kirkland  with  her  "Western 
sketches.  Many  will  remember  her  laughable  description  of 
"  Borrowing  Out  West,"  with  its  two  appropriate  mottoes  : 
"  Lend  me  your  ears,"  from  Shakespeare,  and  from  Bacon  : 
"  Grant  graciously  what  you  cannot  refuse  safely." 

"  '  Mother  wants  your  sifter,'  said  Miss  Ian  the  Ploward, 
a  young  lady  of  six  years'  standing,  attired  in  a  tattered 
calico  thickened  with  dirt  ;  her  unkempt  locks  straggling 
from  under  that  hideous  substitute  for  a  bonnet  so  universal 
in  the  Western  country — a  dirty  cotton  handkerchief — 
which  is  used  ad  nauseam  for  all  sorts  of  purposes. 

"  '  Mother  wants  your  sifter,  arid  she  says  she  guesses 
you  can  let  her  have  some  sugar  and  tea,  'cause  you've  got 
plenty.'  This  excellent  reason,  '  'cause  you've  got  plenty,' 
is  conclusive  as  to  sharing  with  neighbors. 

"  Sieves,  smoothing-irons,  and  churns  run  about  as  if 
they  had  legs  ;  one  brass  kettle  is  enough  for  a  whole 
neighborhood,  and  I  could  point  to  a  cradle  which  has 
rocked  half  the  babies  in  Montacute. 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  have  lent  my  broom,  my  thread^ 
my  tape,  my  spoons,  my  cat,  my  thimble,  my  scissors,  my 
shawl,  my  shoes,  and  have  been  asked  for  my  combs  and 
brushes,  and  my  husband  for  his  shaving  apparatus  and 
pantaloons." 


68  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Whichsr,  whose  "  Widow  Bedott"  is  a  familiar 
name,  resembles  Mrs.  Kirkland  in  her  comic  portraitures, 
which  were  especially  good  of  their  kind,  and  never  be- 
trayed any  malice.  The  "  Bedott  Papers"  first  appeared 
in  1846,  and  became  popular  at  once.  They  are  good 
examples  of  what  they  simply  profess  to  be  :  an  amusing 
series  of  comicalities. 

I  shall  not  quote  from  them,  as  every  one  who  enjoys 
that  style  of  humor  knows  them  by  heart.  It  would  be  as 
useless  as  copying  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,"  or 
"  Mary  had  a  little  lamb,"  for  a  child's  collection  of 
verses  ! 

There  are  many  authors  whom  I  cannot  represent  wor- 
thily in  these  brief  limits.  "When,  encouraged  by  the  un- 
precedented popularity  of  this  venture,  I  prepare  an 
encyclopaedia  of  the  "  "Wit  and  Rumor  of  American 
"Women,"  I  can  do  justice  to  such  writers  as  "  Gail  Hamil- 
ton" and  Miss  Alcott,  whose  "  Transcendental  Wild  Oats" 
cannot  be  cut.  Rose  Terry  Cooke  thinks  her  "  Knoware" 
the  only  funny  thing  she  lias  ever  done.  She  is  greatly 
mistaken,  as  1  can  soon  prove.  "  Knoware"  ought  to  be 
printed  by  itself  to  delight  thousands,  as  her  "  Deacon's 
Week" '  has  already  done.  To  search  for  a  few  good  things 
in  the  works  of  my  witty  friends  is  searching  not  for  the 
time-honored  needle  in  a  hay-mow,  but  for  two  or  three 
needles  of  just  the  right  size  out  of  a  whole  paper  of 
needles. 

"  The  Insanity  of  Cain,"  by  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes  Dodge, 
an  inimitable  satire  on  the  feebleness  of  our  jury  system 
and  the  absurd  pretence  of  "temporary  insanity,"  must 


"SAMPLES"  HERE  AND  THERE.  69 

wait  for  that  encyclopaedia.  And  her  "  Miss  Molony  on 
the  Chinese  Question"  is  known  and  admired  by  every  one, 
including  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  was  fairly  convulsed  by 
its  fun,  when  brought  out  by  our  favorite  elocutionist,  Miss 
Sarah  Cowell,  who  had  the  honor  of  reading  before  royalty. 

I  regretfully  omit  the  "  Peterkin  Letters,"  by  Lucretia  P. 
Hale,  and  the  famous  "  William  Henry  Letters,"  by  Mrs. 
Abby  Morton  Diaz.  The  very  best  bit  from  Miss  Sallie 
McLean  would  be  how  "  Grandma  Spicer  gets  Grandpa 
Ready  for  Sunday-school,"  from  the  "  Cape  Cod  Folks  ;" 
but  why  not  save  space  for  what  is  not  in  everybody's 
mouth  and  memory  ?  This  is  equally  true  of  Mrs.  Cleave- 
land's  "No  Sects  in  Heaven,"  which,  like  Arabella  Wil- 
son's "Sextant,"  goes  the  rounds  of  all  the  papers  every 
other  year  as  a  fresh  delight. 

Marietta  Holley,  too,  must  be  allowed  only  a  brief  quo- 
tation. "  Samantha"  is  a  family  friend  from  Mexico  to 
Alaska.  Mrs.  Metta  Victoria  Victor,  who  died  recently,  has 
written  an  immense  amount  of  humorous  sketches.  Her 
"  Miss  Slimmens,"  the  boarding-house  keeper,  is  a  marked 
character,  and  will  be  remembered  by  many. 

I  will  select  a  few  "  samples,"  unsatisfactory  because  there 
is  so  much  more  just  as  good,  and  then  give  room  for  others 
less  familiar. 

MISS  LUCINDA'S   PIG. 

BY     ROSE     TERRY     COOKE. 

"You  don't  know  of  any  poor  person  who'd  like  to 
have  a  pig,  do  you  ?' '  said  Miss  Lucinda,  wistfully. 

"  Well,  the  poorer  they  was,  the  quicker  they'd  eat  him 
up,  1  guess — ef  they  could  eat  such  a  razor-back." 


70  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

11  Oh,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  his  being  eaten  !  I  wish 
he  could  be  got  rid  of  some  other  way.  Don't  you  think 
he  might  be  killed  in  his  sleep,  Israel  ?' ' 

11  I  think  it's  likely  it  would  wake  him  up,"  said  he, 
demurely.  "  Killin'  's  killin',  and  a  critter  can't  sleep 
over  it  's  though  'twas  the  stomachache.  1  guess  he'd  kick 
some,  ef  he  was  asleep — and  screech  some,  too  !' ' 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Miss  Lucinda,  horrified  at  the  idea. 
"I  wish  he  could  be  sent  out  to  run  in  the  woods.  Are 
there  any  good  woods  near  here,  Israel  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  he'd  as  lieves  be  slartered  to 
once  as  to  starve  an'  be  hunted  down  out  in  the  lots.  Be- 
sides, there  ain't  nobody  as  I  knows  of  would  like  a  hog  to 
be  a-rootin'  round  among  their  turnips  and  young  wheat." 

""Well,  what  I  shall  do  with  him  I  don't  know  !"  de- 
spairingly exclaimed  Miss  Lucinda.  "  He  was  such  a  dear 
little  thing  when  you  bought  him,  Israel  !  Do  you  remem- 
ber how  pink  his  pretty  little  nose  was — just  like  a  rosebud 
— and  how  bright  his  eyes  were,  and  his  cunning  legs  ? 
And  now  he's  grown  so  big  and  fierce  !  But  I  can't  help 
liking  him,  either." 

"  He's  a  cute  critter,  that's  sartain  ;  but  he  does  too  much 
rootin'  to  have  a  pink  nose  now,  I  expect  ;  there's  eonsider- 
'ble  on  't,  so  I  guess  it  looks  as  well  to  have  it  gray.  But 
I  don't  know  no  more'n  you  do  what  to  do  abaout  it." 

"  If  I  could  only  get  rid  of  him  without  knowing  what 
became  of  him  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Lucinda,  squeezing  her 
forefinger  with  great  earnestness,  and  looking  both  puzzled 
and  pained. 

' '  If  Mees  Lucinda  would  pairmit  ?' '  said  a  voice  behind 
her. 


"SAMPLES"  HERE  AND  THERE.  71 

She  turned  round  to  see  Monsieur  Leclerc  on  liis  crutches, 
just  in  the  parlor-door. 

"  I  shall,  mees,  myself  dispose  of  piggie,  if  it  please.  I 
can.  I  shall  have  no  sound  ;  he  shall  to  go  away  like  a 
silent  snow,  to  trouble  you  no  more,  never  !" 

"  Oh,  sir,  if  you  could  !     But  I  don't  see  how  !" 

"  If  mees  was  to  see,  it  would  not  be  to  save  her  pain. 
I  shall  have  him  to  go  by  magique  to  fiery  land." 

Fairy-land,  probably.  But  Miss  Lucinda  did  not  per- 
ceive the  equivoque. 

"  Nor  yet  shall  I  trouble  Meester  Israyel.  I  shall  have 
the  aid  of  myself  and  one  good  friend  that  1  have  ;  and 
some  night,  when  you  rise  of  the  morning,  he  shall  not  be 
there." 

Miss  Lucinda  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged — I  mean,  I  shall  be,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  enough  to  wash  my  hands  on  't,"  said 
Israel.  "  I  shall  hanker  arter  the  critter  some,  but  he's 
a-gettin*  too  big  to  be  handy  ;  'n  it's  one  comfort  about 
critters,  you  ken  git  rid  on  'em  somehaow  when  they're 
more  plague  than  profit.  But  folks  has  got  to  be  let  alone, 
excep'  the  Lord  takes  'em  ;  an'  He  generally  don't  see  fit." 
— From  Somebody's  Neighbors. 

A   GIFT   HORSE. 

BY   ROSE    TERRY   COOKE. 

"  Well,  he  no  need  to  ha'  done  it,  Sary.  I've  told  him 
more'n  four  times  he  hadn't  ought  to  pull  a  gun  tow'rds  him 
by  the  muzzle  on't.  Now  he's  up  an'  did  it  once  for  all." 

"  He  won't  never  hare  no  chance  to  do  it  again,  Scotty, 


72  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

if  you  don't  hurry  up  after  the  doctor,"  said  Sary,  wiping 
her  eyes  on  her  dirty  calico  apron,  thereby  adding  an 
effective  shadow  under  their  redness. 

"  Well,  I'm  agoin',  ain't  I  ?  But  ye  know  yerself 
'twon't  do  to  go  so  fur  on  eend,  'thout  ye're  vittled  con- 
sider'ble  well." 

So  saying,  he  fell  to  at  the  meal  she  Lad  interrupted,  hot 
potatoes,  cold  pork,  dried  venison,  and  blueberry  pie  van- 
ishing down  his  throat  with  an  alacrity  and  dispatch  that 
augured  well  for  the  thorough  "  vittling"  he  intended, 
while  Sary  went  about  folding  chunks  of  boiled  ham,  thick 
slices  of  brown  bread,  solid  rounds  of  "  sody  biskit,"  and 
slab-sided  turnovers  in  a  newspaper,  filling  a  flat  bottle 
with  whiskey,  and  now  and  then  casting  a  look  at  the  low 
bed  where  young  Harry  McAlister  lay,  very  much  whiter 
than  the  sheets  about  him,  and  quite  as  unconscious  of  sur- 
roundings, the  blood  oozing  slowly  through  such  bandages 
as  Scott  Peck's  rude  surgery  had  twisted  about  a  gunshot- 
wound  in  his  thigh,  and  brought  to  close  tension  by  a  stick 
thrust  through  the  folds,  turned  as  tight  as  could  be  borne, 
and  strapped  into  place  by  a  bit  of  coarse  twine. 

It  was  a  long  journey  paddling  up  the  Racquette  River, 
across  creek  and  carry,  with  the  boat  on  his  back,  to  the 
lakes,  and  then  from  Martin's  to  "  Harri'tstown,"  where 
he  knew  a  surgeon  of  repute  from  a  great  city  was  spending 
his  vacation.  It  was  touch-and-go  with  Harry  before  Scott 
and  Dr.  Drake  got  back.  Sary  had  dosed  him  with  veni- 
son-broth, hot  and  greasy,  weak  whiskey  and  water,  and  a 
little  milk  (only  a  little),  for  their  cow  was  old  and  pastured 
chiefly  on  leaves  and  twigs,  and  she  only  came  back  to  the 
shanty  when  she  liked  or  needed  to  come,  so  their  milk 


"SAMPLES"   HEBE  AND  THERE.  73 

supply  was  uncertain,  and  Sary  dared  not  leave  her  patient 
long  enough  to  row  to  the  end  of  Tupper's  Lake,  where 
the  nearest  cow  was  kept.  But  youth  has  a  power  of 
recovery  that  defies  circumstance,  and  Dr.  Drake  was  very 
skilful.  Long  weeks  went  by,  and  the  green  woods  of  July 
had  brightened  and  faded  into  October's  dim  splendor  be- 
fore Harry  McAlister  could  be  carried  up  the  river  and 
over  to  Bartlett's,  where  his  mother  had  been  called  to 
meet  him.  She  was  a  widow,  and  he  her  only  child  ;  and, 
though  she  was  rather  silly  and  altogether  unpractical,  she 
had  a  tender,  generous  heart,  and  was  ready  to  do  anything 
possible  for  Scott  and  Sarah  Peck  to  show  her  gratitude  for 
their  kindness  to  her  boy.  She  did  not  consult  Harry  at 
all.  He  had  lost  much  blood  from  his  accident  and  recov- 
ered strength  slowly.  She  kept  everything  like  thought  or 
trouble  out  of  his  way  as  far  as  she  could,  and  when  the 
family  physician  found  her  heart  was  set  on  taking  him  to 
Florida  for  the  winter,  because  he  looked  pale  and  her 
grandmother's  aunt  had  died  of  consumption,  Dr.  Peet, 
like  a  wise  man,  rubbed  his  hands  together,  bowed,  and 
assured  her  it  would  be  the  very  thing.  But  something 
must  be  done  for  the  Pecks  before  she  went  away.  It 
occurred  to  her  how  difficult  it  must  be  for  them  to  row 
everywhere  in  a  small  boat.  A  horse  would  be  much  bet- 
ter. Even  if  the  roads  were  not  good  they  could  ride, 
Sarah  behind  Scott.  And  so  useful  in  farming,  too.  Her 
mind  was  made  up  at  once.  She  dispatched  a  check  for 
three  hundred  dollars  to  Peter  Haas,  her  old  coachman, 
who  had  bought  a  farm  in  Vermont  with  his  savings,  and 
retired,  with  the  cook  for  his  wife,  into  the  private  life  of  a 
farmer.  Mrs.  McAlister  had  much  faith  in  Peter's  knowl- 


7-4  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

edge  of  horses  and  his  honesty.  She  wrote  him  to  buy  a 
strong,  steady  animal,  and  convey  it  to  Scott  Peck,  either 
sending  him  word  to  come  up  to  Bartlett's  after  it,  or  tak- 
ing it  down  the  river  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  to  make  sure  he 
had  it.  If  the  check  would  not  pay  all  expenses,  he  was  to 
draw  on  her  for  more.  Peter  took  the  opportunity  to  get 
rid  of  a  horse  he  had  no  use  for  in  winter  ;  a  beast  restive 
as  a  racer  when  not  in  daily  use,  but  strong  enough  for  any 
work,  and  steady  enough  if  he  had  work.  Two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  was  the  price  now  set  on  his  head,  though 
Peter  had  bought  him  for  seventy-five,  and  thought  him 
dear  at  that.  The  remaining  fifty  was  ample  for  expenses  ; 
but  Peter  was  a  prudent  German  and  liked  a  margin. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  horse  as  far  as 
Martin's,  and  by  dint  of  patient  insistence  Peter  contrived 
to  have  him  conveyed  to  Bartlett's  ;  but  here  he  rested  and 
sent  a  messenger  down  to  Scott  Peck,  while  he  himself 
returned  to  Bridget  at  the  farm,  slowly  cursing  the  country 
and  the  people  as  he  went  his  way,  for  his  delays  and 
troubles  had  been  numerous. 

"  Gosh  !"  said  Scott  Peck,  when  he  stepped  up  to  the 
log -house  that  served  for  the  guides,  unknowing  what 
awaited  him,  for  the  messenger  had  not  found  him  at  home, 
but  left  word  he  was  to  come  to  Bartlett's  for  something, 
and  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  this  gray  horse. 

"  "What  fool  fetched  his  hoss  up  here  ?" 

The  guides  gathered  about  the  door  of  their  hut,  burst 
into  a  loud  cackle  of  laughter  ;  even  the  beautiful  hounds 
in  their  rough  kennel  leaped  up  and  bayed. 

""W-a-a-1,"  drawled  lazy  Joe  Tucker,  "the  feller  't 
owns  him  ain't  nobody's  fool.  Be  ye,  Scotty  ?" 


''SAMPLES         HERE    AND    THERE.  <O 

"  Wha-t  !"  ejaculated  Scott. 

u  It's  your'n,  man,  sure  as  shootin'  !"  laughed  Hearty 
Jack,  Joe  Tucker's  brother. 

"  Mine  ?  Jehoshaphat  !  Blaze  that  air  track,  will  ye  ? 
I'm  lost,  sure." 

"  Well,  Bartlett's  gone  out  Keeseville  way,  so't  kinder 
was  lef  to  me  to  tell  ye.  'Member  that  ar  chap  that  shot 
hisself  in  the  leg  down  to  your  shanty  this  summer  ?" 

"Well,  I  expect  I  do,  seein'  I  ain't  more'n  a  hundred 
year  old,"  sarcastically  answered  Scott. 

"  He's  cleared  out  South-aways  some'eres,  and  his  ma 
consaited  she  was  dredful  obleeged  to  ye  ;  'n  I'm  blessed  if 
she  didn't  send  an  old  Dutch  feller  up  here  fur  to  fetch  ye 
that  hoss  fur  a  present.  He  couldn't  noways  wait  to  see  ye 
pus'nally,  he  sed,  fur  he  mistrusted  the'  was  snows  here 
sometimes  'bout  this  season.  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !" 

"  Good  land  !"  said  Scott,  sitting  $own  on  a  log,  and 
putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  the  image  of  perplexity, 
while  the  men  about  him  roared  with  fresh  laughter. 
"  What  be  I  a-goin'  to  do  with  the  critter?"  he  asked  of 
the  crowd. 

"  Blessed  if  I  know,"  answered  Hearty  Jack. 

"  Can't  ye  get  him  out  to  'Sable  Falls  or  Keeseville  'n 
sell  him  fur  what  he'll  fetch  ?"  suggested  Joe  Tucker. 

"  I  can't  go  now,  noways.  Sary's  wood- pile's  nigh  gin 
out,  'n  there  was  a  mighty  big  sundog  yesterday  ;  'nd 
moreover  I  smell  snow.  It'll  be  suthin'  to  git  hum  as  'tis. 
Mabbe  Bartlett'll  keep  him  a  spell." 

"  No,  he  won't  ;  you  kin  bet  your  head.  His  fodder's 
a-runnin'  short  for  the  hornid  critters.  He's  bought  some 
up  to  Martin's,  that's  a-comin'  down  dyroct  ;  but  'tain't 


76  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

enough.  He's  put  to't  for  more.  Shouldn't  wonder  ef  he 
had  to  draw  from  North  Elby  when  sleddin'  sets  in." 

"  Well,  I  dono's  there's  but  one  thing  for  to  do  ;  fetch 
him  hum  somehow  or  'nother  ;  'nd  there's  my  boat  over  to 
the  carry  !" 

u  You'd  better  tie  the  critter  on  behind  an'  let  him  wade 
down  the  Racket  !" 

Another  shout  of  laughter  greeted  this  proposal. 

"  I  s'all  take  ze  boat  for  you  !"  quietly  said  a  little 
brown  Canadian — Jean  Poiton.  "  I  am  go  to  Tupper  to- 
morrow. I  have  one  hunt  to  make.  I  can  take  her." 

"  Well  said,  Gene.  I'll  owe  you  a  turn.  But,  fur  all, 
how  be  I  goin'  to  get  that  animile  'long  the  trail  ?" 

"I  dono  !"  answered  Joe  Tucker.  "1  expect,  if  it's- 
got  to  be  did,  you'll  fetch  it  somehow.  But  I'm  mighty 
glad  'tain't  my  job  !" 

Scott  Peck  thought  Joe  had  good  reason  for  joy  in  that 
direction  before  he  had  gone  a  mile  on  his  homeward  way  ! 
The  trail  was  only  a  trail,  rough,  devious,  crossed  with 
roots  of  trees,  brushed  with  boughs  of  tir  and  pine,  and  the 
horse  was  restive  and  unruly.  By  nightfall  he  had  gone 
only  a  few  miles,  and  when  he  had  tied  the  beast  to  a  tree 
and  covered  him  with  a  blanket  brought  from  Baitlett's  for 
the  purpose,  and  strapped  on  his  own  back  all  the  way,  the 
light  of  the  camp-fire  startled  the  horse  so  that  Scott  was 
forced  to  blind  him  with  a  comforter  before  he  would  stand 
still.  Then  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  a  great  owl  hooting 
from  the  tree-top  just  above  him  was  a  fresh  scare,  and  but 
that  the  strap  and  rope  both  were  new  and  strong  he  would 
have  escaped.  Scott  listened  to  his  rearing,  trampling, 
snorts,  and  wild  neigh  with  the  composure  of  a  sleepy 


"SAMPLES"   HERE  AND  THEKE.  77 

man  ;  but  when  lie  awoke  at  daylight,  and  found  four 
inches  of  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night,  he  swore. 

This  was  too  much.  Even  to  his  practised  woodcraft  it 
seemed  impossible  to  get  the  horse  safe  to  his  clearing  with- 
out harm.  It  was  only  by  dint  of  the  utmost  care  and 
patience,  the  greatest  watchfulness  of  the  way,  that  he  got 
along  at  all.  Every  rod  or  two  he  stumbled,  and  all  but 
fell  himself.  Here  and  there  a  loaded  hemlock  bough, 
weighed  out  of  its  uprightness  by  the  wet  snow,  snapped  in 
his  face  and  blinded  him  with  its  damp  burden  ;  and  he 
knew  long  before  nightfall  that  another  night  in  the  woods 
was  inevitable.  He  could  feed  the  horse  on  young  twigs  of 
beech  and  birch,  fresh  moss,  and  new-peeled  bark  (fodder 
the  animal  would  have  resented  with  scorn  under  any  other 
conditions)  ;  but  hunger  has  no  law  concerning  food.  Scott 
himself  was  famished  ;  but  his  pipe  and  tobacco  were  a  ref- 
uge whose  value  he  knew  before,  and  his  charge  was  tired 
enough  to  be  quiet  this  second  night ;  so  the  man  had  an 
undisturbed  sleep  by  his  comfortable  fire.  It  was  full  noon 
of  the  next  day  when  he  reached  his  cabin.  Jean  Poiton 
had  tied  his  boat  to  its  stake,  and  gone  on  without  stopping 
to  speak  to  Sarah  ;  so  her  surprise  was  wonderful  when  she 
saw  Scott  emerge  from  the  forest,  leading  a  gray  creature, 
with  drooping  head  and  shambling  gait,  tired  and  dispirited. 

"  Heaven's  to  Betsey,  Scott  Peck  !  What  hev  you  got 
theer?" 

"  The  devil  !"  growled  Scott. 

Sary  screamed. 

"  Do  hold  your  jaw,  gal,  an'  git  me  su'thin'  hot  to  eat  'n 
drink.  I'm  savager'n  an  Injin.  Come,  git  along."  And, 
tying  his  horse  to  a  stump,  the  hungry  man  followed  Sarah 


78  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

into  the  house  and  helped  himself  out  of  a  keg  in  the  corner 
to  a  long,  reviving  draught. 

"  Du  tell  !"  said  Sarah,  when  the  pork  began  to  frizzle 
in  the  pan.  "  What  upon  airth  did  you  buy  a  boss  for  ?" 
(She  had  discovered  it  was  a  horse.) 

"  Buy  it  !  I  guess  not.  I  ain't  no  such  blamed  fool  as 
that  comes  to.  That  feller  you  missed  up  here  a  spell  back, 
he  up  an"  sent  it  roun'  to  Bartlett's,  for  a  present  to  me." 

"  Well  !  Did  he  think  you  was  a-goin'  to  set  up  canawl 
long  o'  Kacket  ?" 

"  I  expect  he  calc'lated  I'd  go  racin',"  dryly  answered 
Scott. 

"  But  what  be  ye  a-goin'  to  feed  him  with  ?"  said  Sary, 
laying  venison  steaks  into  the  pan. 

"  Lord  knows  !  I  don't.  Shut  up,  Sary  !  I'm  tuck- 
ered out  with  the  beast.  I'd  ruther  still-hunt  three  weeks 
on  eend  than  fetch  him  in  from  Sar'nac,  now  I  tell  ye. 
Ain't  them  did  enough  ?  I  could  eat  a  raw  bear." 

Sary  laughed  and  asked  no  more  questions  till  the  raven- 
ous man  had  satisfied  himself  with  the  savory  food  ;  but,  if 
she  had  asked  them,  Scott  would  have  had  no  answer,  for 
his  mind  was  perplexed  to  the  last  Degree.  He  fed  the 
beast  for  a  while  on  potatoes  ;  but  that  was  taking  the  bread 
out  of  his  own  mouth,  though  he  supplemented  it  with  now 
and  then  a  boat-load  of  coarse,  frost-killed  grass,  but  the 
horse  grew  more  and  more  gaunt  and  restive.  His  eyes 
glared  with  hunger  and  fury.  He  kicked  out  one  side  of 
the  cowshed  and  snapped  at  Scott  whenever  he  came  near 
him.  Want  of  use  and  food  had  ..restored  him  to  the  orig- 
inal savagery  of  his  race.  Hitherto  Scott  had  never  ac- 
knowledged Mrs.  McAlister's  gift ;  but  Sary,  who  had  a 


"SAMPLES"  HEKE  AND  THERE.  79 

vague  idea  of  good  manners,  caught  from  the  picture  papers 
and  occasional  dime  novels  the  tribe  of  Adirondack  travel- 
lers strew  even  in  such  a  wilderness,  kept  pecking  at  him. 

"  Ta'n't  no  more'n  civil  to  say  thank  ye,  to  the  least," 
she  said,  till  Scott's  temper  gave  way. 

"  Stop  a-pesterin'  of  me  !  I've  lied  too  much.  I  ain't 
a  speck  thankful  !  I'm  mightily  t'other  thing,  whatever 
'tis.  Write  to  her  yourself,  if  you're  a  mind  tu.  You  can 
make  a  better  list  at  it,  anyways.  Conies  as  nateral  to 
women  to  lie  as  sap  to  run.  I'll  be  etarnally  blessed  ef  I 
touch  paper  for  to  do  it."  And  he  flung  out  of  the  door 
with  a  bang. 

Of  course  Sary  wrote  the  letter,  which  one  balmy  day 
electrified  Harry  and  his  mother  as  they  sat  basking  in 
Southern  sunshine  ; 

"  Mis  MACALLISTUE  :  This  is  fur  to  say  wee  is  reel  obliged  to  ye  fur  the 
Hoss." 

"  Good  gracious,  mother  !  Did  you  send  them  a  horse  ?" 
ejaculated  Harry. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  I  wanted  to  show  my  sense  of  their 
kindness,  and  I  could  not  offer  these  people  money.  I 
thought  a  horse  would  be  so  useful !" 

"  Useful  !  in  the  Adirondack  woods  !"  And  Harry 
burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  that  scarcely  permitted  his 
mother  to  go  on  ;  but  at  last  she  proceeded  : 

"  But  Scotty  and  me  ain't  ackwainted  So  to  speak  with  Hoss  ways  ; 
he  seems  kinder  Hum-sick  if  you  may  say  that  of  a  Cretur.  We  air 
etarnally  gratified  to  You  for  sech  a  Valewble  Pressent,  but  if  you  was 
Wiling  we  shood  Like  to  swapp  it  of  in  spring  fur  a  kow,  ourn  Being 
some  in  years. 

"  yours  to  Command,  SARY  PKCK." 


80  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

But  long  before  Mrs.  McAlister's  permission  to  "  swap" 
the  horse  reached  Scott  Peck,  the  creature  took  his  destiny 
into  his  own  hands.  Scott  had  gone  away  on  a  desperate 
errand,  to  fetch  some  sort  of  food  for  the  poor  creature, 
whose  bones  stared  him  in  the  face,  and  Sary  went  out  one 
morning  to  give  him  her  potato-peelings  and  some  scraps  of 
bread,  when,  suddenly,  he  jerked  his  head  fiercely,  snapped 
his  halter  in  two,  and  wheeled  round  upon  the  frightened 
woman,  rearing,  snorting,  and  showing  his  long,  yellow 
teeth.  Sary  fled  at  once  and  barred  the  door  behind  her  ; 
but  neither  she  nor  Scott  ever  saw  their  "  gift  horse''  again. 
For  aught  1  know  he  still  roams  the  Adirondack  forest,  and 
maybe  personates  the  ghostly  and  ghastly  white  deer  of 
song  and  legend.  Who  can  tell  ?  But  he  was  lifted  off 
Scott  Peck's  shoulders,  and  all  Scott  said  by  way  of  epitaph 
on  the  departed,  when  he  came  home  to  find  his  white  steed 
gone,  was,  "  Hang  presents  !" 

"  Samantha  Allen"  will  now  have  "a  brief  opportunity 
for  remark." 

Admire  her  graphic  description  of  the  excitement  Josiah 
caused  by  voting,'  at  a  meeting  of  the  "  Jonesville  Crea- 
tion Searchers,"  for  his  own  spouse  as  a  delegate  from 
Jonesville  to  the  "  Sentinel."  She  reports  thus  : 

"  It  was  a  fearful  time,  but  right  where  the  excitement 
was  raining  most  fearfully  I  felt  a  motion  by  the  side  of  me, 
and  my  companion  got  up  and  stood  on  his  feet  and  says, 
\i\pretty  firm  accents,  though  some  sheepish  : 

"  'I  did,  and  there's  where  I  stand  now  ;  1  vote  for 
Samantha  !  ' 

"  And  then  he  sot  down  again.     Oh,  the  fearful  excite- 


"SAMPLES"   HERE  AND  THERE.  81 

ment  and  confusion  that  rained  down  again  !  The  president 
got  up  and  tried  to  speak  ;  the  editor  of  the  Auger  talked 
wildly  ;  Shakespeare  Bobbet  talked  to  himself  incoherently, 
but  Solomon  Cypher's  voice  drowned  'em  all  out,  as  he 
kep'  a-smitin'  his  breast  and  a  hollerin'  that  he  wasn't  goin' 
to  be  infringed  upon,  or  come  in  contract  with  no  woman  ! 

"  No  female  woman  needn't  think  she  was  the  equal  of 
man  ;  and  I  should  go  as  a  woman  or  stay  to  home.  I  was 
so  almost  wore  out  by  their  talk,  that  I  spoke  right  out,  and, 
says  I,  'Good  land!  how  did  you  s'pose  I  was  a-goin'  ? ' 

"  The  president  then  said  that  he  meant,  if  I  went  I 
mustn't  look  upon  things  with  the  eye  of  a  '  Creation 
Searcher  '  and  a  man  (here  he  p'inted  his  forefinger  right  up 
in  the  air  and  waved  it  round  in  a  real  free  and  soarin'  way), 
but  look  at  things  with  the  eye  of  a  private  investigator  and 
a  woman  (here  he  p'inted  his  finger  firm  and  stiddy  right 
down  into  the  wood-box  and  a  pan  of  ashes).  It  war  im- 
pressive— VERY.  ' ' 

MISS   SLIMMENS   SURPRISED. 

A  Terrible  Accident. 

BY   METTA    VICTORIA   VICTOR. 

' '  Dora  !  Dora  !  Dora  !  wake  up,  wake  up,  I  say  !  Don't 
you  smell  something  burning  ?  Wake  up,  child  !  Don't 
you  smell  fire  ?  Good  Lord  !  so  do  1.  I  thought  I  wasn't 
mistaken.  The  room's  full  of  smoke.  Oh,  dear  !  what'll 
we  do  ?  Don't  stop  to  put  on  your  petticoat.  We'll  all  be 
burned  to  death.  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  fire  ! 

"  Yes,  there  is  !  I  don't  know  where  !  It's  all  over — our 
room's  all  in  a  blaze,  and  Dora  won't  come  out  till  she  gets 


82  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

her  dress  on.  Mr.  Little,  you  shan't  go  in — I'll  hold  you 
• — you'll  be  killed  just  to  save  that  chit  of  a  girl,  when — I 
— 1 —  He's  gone — rushed  right  into  the  flames.  Oh,  my 
house  !  my  furniture  !  all  my  earnings  !  Can't  anything 
be  done  ?  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  Call  the  fire-engines  !  ring 
the  dinner-bell  !  Be  quiet  !  How  can  I  be  quiet  ?  Yes, 
it  is  all  in  flames.  I  saw  them  myself  !  Where's  my  silver 
spoons  ?  Oh,  where's  my  teeth,  and  my  silver  soup-ladle  ? 
Let  me  be  !  I'm  going  out  in  the  street  before  it's  too 
late  !  Oh,  Mr.  Grayson  !  have  you  got  water  ?  have  you 
found  the  place  ?  are  they  bringing  water  ? 

u  Did  you  say  the  fire  was  out  ?  Was  that  you  that  spoke, 
Mr.  Little  ?  1  thought  you  were  burned  up,  sure  ;  and 
there's  Dora,  too.  How  did  they  get  it  out  ?  My  clothes- 
closet  was  on  fire,  and  the  room,  too  !  We  would  have 
been  smothered  in  five  minutes  more  if  we  hadn't  waked 
up  !  But  it's  all  out  now,  and  no  damage  done,  but  my 
dresses  destroyed  and  the  carpet  spoiled.  Thank  the  Lord, 
if  that's  the  worst  !  But  it  ain't  the  worst.  Dora,  come 
along  this  minute  to  my  room.  1  don't  care  if  it  is  cold, 
and  wet,  and  full  of  smoke.  Don't  you  see — don't  you  see 
I'm  in  my  night-clothes  ?  I  never  thought  of  it  before. 
I'm  ruined,  ruined  completely  !  Go  to  bed,  gentlemen  ; 
get  out  of  the  way  as  quick  as  you  can  Dora,  shut  the 
door.  Hand  me  that  candle  ;  I  want  to  look  at  myself  in 
the  glass.  To  think  that  all  those  gentlemen  should  have 
seen  me  in  this  fix  !  I'd  rather  have  perished  in  the  flames. 
It's  the  very  first  night  I've  worn  these  flannel  night-caps, 
and  to  be  seen  in  'em  !  Good  gracious  !  how  old  I  do 
look  !  Not  a  spear  of  hair  on  my  head  scarcely,  and  this 
red  night-gown  and  old  petticoat  on,  and  my  teeth  in  the 


"SAMPLES"  HERE  AND  THERE.  83 

tumbler,  and  the  paint  all  washed  off  my  face,  and  scarred 
besides  !  It's  no  use  !  I  never,  never  can  again  make  any 
of  those  men  believe  that  I'm  only  twenty-five,  arid  1  felt  so 
sure  of  some  of  them. 

"  Oh,  Dora  Adams  !  you  needn't  look  pale  ;  you've  lost 
nothing.  I'll  warrant  Mr.  Little  thought  you  never  looked 
so  pretty  as  in  that  ruffled  gown,  and  your  hair  all  down 
over  your  shoulders.  He  says  you  were  fainting  from  the 
smoke  when  he  dragged  you  out.  You  must  be  a  little  fool 
to  be  afraid  to  come  out  looking  that  way.  They  say  that 
new  boarder  is  a  drawing-master,  and  I  seen  some  of  his 
pictures  yesterday  ;  he  had  some  such  ridiculous  things. 
He'll  caricature  me  for  the  amusement  of  the  young  men, 
I  know.  Only  think  how  my  portrait  would  look  taken  to- 
night !  and  he'll  have  it,  I'm  sure,  for  I  noticed  him  look- 
ing at  me — the  first  that  reminded  me  of  my  situation  after 
the  fire  was  put  out.  Well,  there's  but  one  thing  to  be 
done,  and  that's  to  put  a  bold  face  on  it.  I  can't  sleep  any 
more  to-night  ;  besides,  the  bed's  wet,  and  it'a  beginning 
to  get  daylight.  I'll  go  to  work  and  get  myself  ready  for 
breakfast,  and  I'll  pretend  to  something — E  don't  know  just 
what — to  get  myself  out  of  this  scrape,  if  I  can.  .  .  . 

"  Good-morning,  gentlemen,  good-morning  !  We  had 
quite  a  fright  last  night,  didn't  we  ?  Dora  and  I  came 
pretty  near  paying  dear  for  a  little  frolic.  You  see,  we 
were  dressing  up  in  character  to  amuse  ourselves,  and  I  was 
all  fixed  up  for  to  represent  an  old  woman,  and  had  put  on 
a  gray  wig  and  an  old  flannel  gown  that  I  found,  and  we'd 
set  up  pretty  late,  having  some  fun  all  to  ourselves  ;  and  I 
expect  Dora  must  have  been  pretty  sleepy  when  she  was 
putting  some  of  the  things  away,  and  set  fire  to  a  dress  in 


84  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

the  closet  without  noticing  it.  I'  ve  lost  my  whole  ward- 
robe, nigh  about,  by  her  carelessness  ;  but  it's  such  a  mercy 
we  wasn't  burned  in  our  bed  that  I  don't  feel  to  complain 
so  much  on  that  account.  Isn't  it  curious  how  I  got  caught 
dressed  up  like  my  grandmother  ?  We  didn't  suppose  we 
were  going  to  appear  before  so  large  an  audience  when  we 
planned  out  our  little  frolic.  What  character  did  Dora 
assume  ?  Really,  Mr.  Little,  I  was  so  scared  last  night 
that  I  disre'member.  She  took  off  her  rigging  before  she 
went  to  bed.  Don't  you  think  I'd  personify  a  pretty  good 
old  woman,  gentlemen — ha  !  ha  ! — for  a  lady  of  my  age  ? 
What's  that,  Mr.  Little  ?  You  wish  I'd  make  you  a  pres- 
ent of  that  nightcap,  to  remember  me  by  ?  Of  course  ; 
I'  ve  no  further  use  for  it.  Of  course  I  haven't.  It's  one 
of  Bridget's,  that  1  borrowed  for  the  occasion,  and  I've  got 
to  give  it  back  to  her.  Have  some  coffee,  Mr.  Grayson — 
do  !  I've  got  cream  for  it  this  morning.  Mr.  Smith,  help 
yourself  to  some  of  the  beefsteak.  It's  a  very  cold  morn- 
ing— fine  weather  out  of  doors.  Eat  all  you  can,  all  of  you. 
Have  you  any  profiles  to  take  yet,  Mr.  Gamboge  ?  I  may 
make  up  my  mind  to  set  for  mine  before  you  leave  us  ; 
I've  always  thought  I  should  have  it  taken  some  time.  In 
character  ?  He  !  he  !  Mr.  Little,  you're  so  funny  !  But 
you'll  excuse  me  this  morning,  as  I  had  such  a  fright  last 
night.  I  must  go  and  take  up  that  wet  carpet." 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   BRACE   OF   WITTY   WOMEN. 

BY  the  courtesy  of  Harper  Brothers  1  am  allowed  to  give 
you  ''  Aunt  Anniky's  Teeth,"  by  Sherwood  Bonner.  The 
illustrations  add  much,  but  the  story  is  good  enough  without 
pictures. 

AUNT  AXNIKY'S   TEETH. 

BY   SHERWOOD    BONNER. 

Aunt  Anniky  was  an  African  dame,  fifty  years  old,  and 
of  an  imposing  presence.  As  a  waffle-maker  she  possessed 
a  gift  beyond  the  common,  but  her  unapproachable  talent 
lay  in  the  province  of  nursing.  She  seemed  born  for  the 
benefit  of  sick  people.  She  should  have  been  painted  with 
the  apple  of  healing  in  her  hand.  For  the  rest,  she  was  a 
funny,  illiterate  old  darkey,  vain,  affable,  and  neat  as  a  pink. 

On  one  occasion  my  mother  had  a  dangerous  illness. 
Aunt  Anniky  nursed  her  through  it,  giving  herself  no  rest, 
night  nor  day,  until  her  patient  had  come  "  back  to  de 
walks  an1  ways  ob  life,' '  as  she  expressed  the  dear  mother's, 
recovery.  My  father,  overjoyed  and  grateful,  felt  that  we 
owed  this  result  quite  as  much  to  Aunt  Anniky  as  to  our 
family  doctor,  so  he  announced  his  intention  of  making  her 
a  handsome  present,  and,  like  King  Herod,  left  her  free  to 
choose  what  it  should  be.  I  shall  never  forget  how  Aunt 


86  THE    WIT    OF    WOMKN. 

Anniky  looked  as  she  stood  there  smiling  and  bowing,  and 
bobbing  the  funniest  little  courtesies  all  the  way  down  to 
the  ground. 

And  you  would  never  guess  what  it  was  the  old  woman 
asked  for. 

"Well,  Mars'  Charles,"  said  she  (she  had  been  one  of 
our  old  servants,  and  always  called  my  father  '  Mars' 
Charles  '),  "  to  tell  you  de  livin'  trufe,  my  soul  an'  body  is 
a-yearnin'  fur  a  han'sum  chany  set  o'  teef. " 

"  A  set  of  teeth  !"  said  father,  surprised  enough.  "  And 
have  you  none  left  of  your  own  ?" 

"  I  has  gummed  it  fur  a  good  many  ye'rs,"  said  Aunt 
Anniky,  with  a  sigh;  "but  not  wishin'  ter  be  ongrateful 
ter  my  obligations,  I  owns  ter  havin'  five  nateral  teef.  But 
dey  is  po'  sogers  ;  dey  shirks  battle.  One  ob  dern's  got  a 
little  somethin'  in  it  as  lively  as  a  speared  worm,  an'  I  tell 
you  when  anything  teches  it,  hot  or  cold,  it  jest  makes  me 
dance!  An'  anudder  is  in  my  top  jaw,  an'  ain't  got  no 
match  fur  it  in  de  bottom  one  ;  an'  one  is  broke  off  nearly 
to  de  root  ;  an'  de  las'  two  is  so  yaller  dat  I's  ashamed  ter 
show  'em  in  company,  an'  so  1  lif's  my  turkey-tail  ter  my 
jnouf  every  time  1  laughs  or  speaks." 

Father  turned  to  mother  with  a  musing  air.  "  The  curi- 
ous student  of  humanity,"  he  remarked.  "  traces  resem- 
blances where  they  are  not  obviously  conspicuous.  Now, 
:at  the  first  blush,  one  would  not  think  of  any  common 
.ground  of  meeting  for  our  Aunt  Anniky  and  the  Empress 
Josephine.  Yet  that  fine  French  lady  introduced  the  fash- 
•jon  of  handkerchiefs  by  continually  raising  delicate  lace 
•mouchoirs  to  her  lips  to  hide  her  bad  teeth.  Aunt  Anniky 
lifts  her  turkey-tail  !  It  really  seems  that  human  beings 


A    BRACE    OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  87 

should  be  classed  by  strata,  as  if  they  were  metals  in  the 
earth.  Instead  of  dividing  by  nations,  let  us  class  by 
quality.  So  we  might  find  Turk,  Jew,  Christian,  fashion- 
able lady  and  washerwoman,  master  and  slave,  hanging 
together  like  cats  on  a  clothes-line  by  some  connecting  cord 
of  affinity—" 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  said  my  mother,  mildly,  "  Aunt 
Anniky  is  waiting  to  know  if  she  is  to  have  her  teeth." 

"  Oh,  surely,  surely  !"  cried  father,  coming  out  of  the 
clouds  with  a  start.  ' '  I  am  going  to  the  village  to-morrow, 
Anniky,  in  the  spring  Wagon.  I  will  take  you  with  me, 
and  we  will  see  what  the  dentist  can  do  for  you." 

"  Bless  yo'  heart,  Mars'  Charles  !"  said  the  delighted 
Anniky  ;  "  you're  jest  as  good  as  yo'  blood  and  yo'  name, 
and  mo'  I  couldn't  say." 

The  morrow  came,  and  with  it  Aunt  Anniky,  gorgeously 
arrayed  in  a  naming  red  calico,  a  bandanna  handkerchief, 
and  a  string  of  carved  yellow  beads  that  glittered  on  her 
bosom  like  fresh  buttercups  on  a  hill-slope. 

1  had  petitioned  to  go  with  the  party,  for,  as  we  lived  on 
a  plantation,  a  visit  to  the  village  was  something  of  an 
event.  A  brisk  drive  soon  brought  us  to  the  centre  of 
"  the  Square."  A  glittering  sign  hung  brazenly  from  a 
high  window  on  its  western  side,  bearing,  in  raised  black 
letters,  the  name,  "  Doctor  Alonzo  Babb." 

Dr.  Babb  was  the  dentist  and  the  odd  fish  of  our  village. 
He  beams  in  my  memory  as  a  big,  round  man,  with  hair  and 
smiles  all  over  his  face,  who  talked  incessantly,  and  said 
things  to  make  your  blood  run  cold. 

"  Do  you  see  this  ring  ?"  he  said,  as  he  bustled  about, 
polishing  his  instruments  and  making  his  preparations  for 


88  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

the  sacrifice  of  Aunt  Annikj.  He  held  up  his  right  hand, 
on  the  forefinger  of  which  glistened  a  ring  the  size  of  a  dog- 
collar.  "  Now,  what  d'ye  s'pose  that's  made  of  ?" 

'*'  Brass,"  suggested  father,  who  was  funny  when  not 
philosophical. 

"Brass  /"  cried  Dr.  Babb,  with  a  withering  look  ;  "  it's 
virgin  gold,  that  ring  is.  And  where  d've  s'pose  I  found 
the  gold?" 

My  father  ran  his  hands  into  his  pockets  in  a  retrospective 
sort  of  way. 

11  In  the  mouths  of  my  patients,  every  grain  of  it,"  said 
the  dentist,  with  a  perfectly  diabolical  smack  of  the  lips. 
"  Old  fillings — plugs,  you  know — that  I  saved,  and  had 
made  up  into  this  shape.  Good  deal  of  sentiment  about 
such  a  ring  as  this. ' ' 

"  Sentiment  of  a  mixed  nature,  I  should  say,"  murmured 
my  father,  with  a  grimace. 

"  Mixed — rather  !  A  speck  here,  a  speck  there.  Some- 
times an  eye,  of tener  a  jaw,  occasionally  a  front.  More  than 
a  hundred  men,  I  s'pose,  have  helped  in  the  cause." 

"  Law,  doctor  !  you  beats  de  birds,  you  does,"  cries 
Aunt  Anniky,  whose  head  was  as  flat  as  the  floor,  where 
her  reverence  should  have  been.  "  You  know  dey  snatches 
de  wool  from  ebery  bush  to  make  deir  nests. " 

"  Lots  of  company  for  me,  that  ring  is,"  said  the  doctor, 
ignoring  the  pertinent  or  impertinent  interruption.  "  Often 
as  I  sit  in  the  twilight,  I  twirl  it  around  and  around, 
a-thinking  of  the  wagon-loads  of  food  it  has  masticated,  the 
blood  that  has  flowed  over  it,  the  groans  that  it  has  cost  ! 
Now,  old  lady,  if  you  will  sit  just  here." 

He  motioned  Aunt  Anniky  to  the  chair,  into  which  she 


A    BRACE    OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  89 

dropped  in  a  limp  sort  of  way,  recovering  herself  immedi- 
ately, however,  and  sitting  bolt  upright  in  a  rigid  attitude 
of  defiance.  Some  moments  of  persuasion  were  necessary 
before  she  could  be  induced  to  lean  back  and  allow  Dr. 
Babb's  fingers  on  her  nose  while  she  breathed  the  laughing- 
gas  ;  but,  once  settled,  the  expression  faded  from  her  coun- 
tenance almost  as  quickly  as  a  magic-lantern  picture  van- 
ishes. I  watched  her  nervously,  my  attention  divided 
between  her  vacant-looking  face  and  a.  dreadful  picture  on 
the  wall.  It  represented  Dr.  Babb  himself,  minus  the  hair, 
but  with  double  the  number  of  smiles,  standing  by  a  patient 
from  whose  mouth  he  had  apparently  just  extracted  a  huge 
molar  that  he  held  triumphantly  in  his  forceps.  A  gray- 
haired  old  gentleman  regarded  the  pair  with  benevolent 
interest.  The  photograph  was  entitled,  "  His  First  Tooth." 

"  Attracted  by  that  picture  ?"  said  Dr.  Alonzo,  affably, 
his  fingers  on  Aunt  Anniky's  pulse.  "  My  par  had  that 
struck  off  the  first  time  I  ever  got  a  tooth  out.  That's  par 
with  the  gray  hair  and  the  benediction  attitude.  Tell  you, 
he  was  proud  of  me  !  1  had  such  an  awful  tussle  with  that 
tooth  !  Thought  the  old  fellow's  jaw  was  bound  to  break  ! 
But  I  got  it  out,  and  after  that  my  par  took  me  with  him 
round  the  country — starring  the  provinces,  you  know — and 
I  practised  on  the  natives." 

By  this  time  Aunt  Anniky  was  well  under  the  influence 
of  the  gas,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  her  five 
teeth  were  out.  As  she  came  to  herself  I  am  sorry  to  say 
she  was  rather  silly,  and  quite  mortified  me  by  winking  at 
Dr.  Babb  in  the  most  confidential  manner,  and  repeating, 
over  and  over  again  :  "  Honey,  yer  ain't  harf  as  smart  as 
yer  thinks  yer  is  !" 


90  THE    WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  sore  gums,  Aunt  Anniky  appeared, 
radiant  with  her  new  teeth.  The  effect  was  certainly 
funny.  In  the  first  place,  blackness  itself  was  not  so  black 
as  Aunt  Anniky.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been  dipped  in 
ink  and  polished  off  with  lamp-black.  Her  very  eyes 
showed  but  the  faintest  rim  of  white.  But  those  teeth  were 
white  enough  to  make  up  for  everything.  She  had  selected 
them  herself,  and  the  little  ridiculous  milk-white  things 
were  more  fitted  for  the  mouth  of  a  Titania  than  for  the 
great  cavern  in  which  Aunt  Anniky 's  tongue  moved  and 
had  its  being.  The  gums  above  them  were  black,  and 
when  she  spread  her  wide  mouth  in  a  laugh,  it  always 
reminded  me  of  a  piano-lid  opening  suddenly  and  showing 
all  the  black  and  white  ivories  at  a  glance.  Aunt  Anniky 
laughed  a  good  deal,  too,  after  getting  her  teeth  in,  and 
declared  she  had  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life.  It  was 
observed,  to  her  credit,  that  she  put  on  no  airs  of  pride, 
but  was  as  sociable  as  ever,  and  made  nothing  of  taking  out 
her  teeth  and  handing  them  around  for  inspection  among 
her  curious  and  admiring  visitors.  On  that  principle  of 
human  nature  which  glories  in  calling  attention  to  the 
weakest  part,  she  delighted  in  tough  meats,  stale  bread, 
green  fruits,  and  all  other  eatables  that  test  the  biting  qual- 
ity of  the  teeth.  But  finally  destruction  came  upon  them 
in  a  way  that  no  one  could  have  foreseen.  Uncle  Ned  was 
an  old  colored  man  who  lived  alone  in  a  cabin  not  very  far 
from  Aunt  Anniky's,  but  very  different  from  her  in  point 
of  cleanliness  and  order.  In  fact,  Uncle  Ned's  wealth, 
apart  from  a  little  corn  crop,  consisted  in  a  lot  of  fine 
young  pigs,  that  ran  in  and  out  of  the  house  at  all  times, 
and  were  treated  by  their  owner  as  tenderly  as  if  they  had 


A    BRACE    OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  01 

been  his  children.  One  fine  day  the  old  man  fell  sick  of  a 
fever,  and  he  sent  in  haste  for  Aunt  Anniky  to  come  and 
nurse  him.  He  agreed  to  give  her  a  pig  in  case  she 
brought  him  through  ;  should  she  fail  to  do  so,  she  M*as  to 
receive  no  pay.  Well,  Uncle  Ned  got  well,  and  the  next 
thing  we  heard  was  that  he  refused  to  pay  the  pig.  My 
father  was  usually  called  on  to  settle  all  the  disputes  in  the 
neighborhood  ;  so  one  morning  Anniky  and  Ned  appeared 
before  him,  both  looking  very  indignant. 

"  I'd  jes'  like  ter  tell  yer,  Mars'  Charles,"  began  Uncle 
Ned,  "  ob  de  trick  dis  miser'ble  ole  nigger  played  on  me." 

"  Go  on,  Ned,"  said  my  father,  with  a  resigned  air. 

"  Well,  it  wuz  de  fift  night  o'  de  fever,"  said  Uncle 
Ned,  "  an'  I  wuz  a-tossin'  an'  a-moanin',  an'  old  Anniky 
jes'  lay  back  in  her  cheer  an'  snored  as  ef  a. dozen  frogs 
wuz  in  her  throat.  I  wuz  a-perishin'  an'  a-burnin'  wid 
thirst,  an'  I  hollered  to  Anniky  ;  but  Lor'  !  I  might  as 
well  'a  hollered  to  a  tombstone  !  It  wuz  ice  1  wanted  ;  an' 
1  knowed  dar  wuz  a  glass  somewhar  on  my  table  wid 
cracked  ice  in  it.  Lor'  !  Lor'  !  how  dry  I  wuz  !  I  neber 
longed  fer  whiskey  in  my  born  days  ez  I  panted  fur  dat  ice. 
It  wuz  powerful  dark,  fur  de  grease  wuz  low  in  de  lamp, 
an'  de  wick  spluttered  wid  a  dyin'  flame.  But  I  felt 
aroun',  feeble  like  an'  slow,  till  my  fingers  touched  a  glass. 
I  pulled  it  to  me,  an'  I  run  my  han'  in  an'  grabbed  de  ice, 
as  I  s'posed,  an'  flung  it  in  my  mouf,  an'  crunched,  an' 
crunched — " 

Here  there  was  an  awful  pause.  Uncle  Ned  pointed  his 
thumb  at  Anniky,  looked  wildly  at  my  father,  and  said,  in 
a  hollow  voice  :  "It  wuz  Anniky' s  teef  7" 

My  father  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  as  I  had 


92  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

never  heard  him  laugh.  Mother  from  her  sofa  joined  in. 
1  was  doubled  up  like  a  jack-knife  in  the  corner.  But  as 
for  the  principals  in  the  affair,  neither  of  their  faces  moved 
a  muscle.  They  saw  no  joke.  Aunt  Anniky,  in  a  dread- 
ful, muffled,  squashy  sort  of  voice,  took  up  the  tale  : 

"  Nexsh  ting  I  knowed,  Marsh  Sharles,  somebody's 
sheizin'  me  by  de  head,  a-jammin'  it  up  'gin  de  wall, 
a- jawin'  at  me  like  de  Angel  Gabriel  at  de  rish  ole  sinners 
in  de  bad  plashe — an'  dar  wash  ole  Ned  a-spittin'  like  a 
black  cat,  an'  a-howlin'  so  dreadful  dat  I  tought  he  wash  de 
debil  ;  an'  when  I  got  de  light,  dar  wash  my  beautiful 
chany  teef  a-flung  aroun',  like  scattered  seed-corn,  on  de 
do',  an'  Ned  a-svvarin'  he'd  have  de  law  o'  me." 

"  An'  arter  all  dat,"  broke  in  Uncle  Ned,  "  she  pretends 
to  lay  a  claim  fur  my  pig.  But  I  says  no,  sir  ;  T  don't  pay 
nobody  nothin'  who's  played  me  a  trick  like  dat." 

"Trick!"'  said  Aunt  Anniky,  scornfully,  "  whar's  de 
trick  '(  Tink  1  wanted  yer  ter  eat  my  teef  ?  An'  furder- 
mo'.  Marsh  Sharles,  dar's  jes'  dis  about  it  :  when  dat  night 
set  in  dar  warn't  no  mo'  hope  fur  old  Ned  dan  fur  a  foun- 
dered sheep.  Laws-a-massy  !  dat's  why  I  went  ter  sleep. 
I  wanted  ter  hev  strengt'  ter  put  on  his  burial  clo'es  in  de 
mornin'.  But  don'  yer  see,  Marsh  Sharles,  dat  when  he 
got  so  mad  it  brought  on  a  sweat  dat  broke  de  fever ! 
It  saved  him  !  But,  fur  all  dat,  arter  rnunchin'  an'  man- 
glin'  my  chany  teef,  he  has  de  imperdence  ob  tryin'  to 
'prive  me  ob  de  pig  1  honestly  'arned." 

It  was  a  hard  case.  Uncle  Ned  sat  there  a  very  image  of 
injured  dignity,  while  Aunt  Anniky  bound  a  red  handker- 
chief around  her  mouth  and  fanned  herself  with  her  turkey- 
tail. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  settle  the  matter,"  said 


A    BRACE    OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  93 

• 

father,  helplessly.  "  Ned,  I  don't  see  but  that  you'll  have 
to  pay  up." 

"  Neber,  Mars'  Charles,  neber," 

"  Well,  suppose  you  get  married  ?"  suggested  father, 
brilliantly.  "  That  will  unite  your  interests,  you  know." 

Aunt  Anniky  tossed  her  head.  Uncle  Ned  was  old, 
wizened,  wrinkled  as  a  raisin,  but  he  eyed  Anniky  over 
with  a  supercilious  gaze,  and  said  with  dignity  :  "  Ef  I 
wanted  ter  marry,  I  could  git  a  likely  young  gal." 

All  the  four  points  of  Anniky's  turban  shook  with  indig- 
nation. "  Pay  me  fur  dem  chany  teef  !"  she  hissed. 

Some  visitors  interrupted  the  dispute  at  this  time,  and 
the  two  old  darkies  went  away. 

A  week  later  Uncle  Ned  appeared  with  rather  a  sheepish 
look. 

"Well,  Mars'  Charles,"  he  said,  "  I's  about  concluded 
dat  I'll  marry  Anniky." 

"Ah!  is  that  so?" 

"  'Pears  like  it's  de  onliest  way  I  kin  save  my  pigs," 
said  Uncle  Ned,  with  a  sigh.  "  When  she's  married  she 
boun'  ter  ''ley  me.  Women  'bey  your  husbands  ;  dat's 
what  de  good  Book  says." 

"  Yes,  she  will  lay  you,  I  doirt  doubt,"  said  my  father, 
making  a  pun  that  Uncle  Ned  could  not  appreciate. 

"  An?  ef  ever  she  opens  her  jaw  ter  me  'bout  dem  ar 
teef."  he  went  on,  "  I'll  mash  her." 

Uncle  Ned  tottered  on  his  legs  like  an  unscrewed  fruit- 
stand,  and  I  had  my  own  opinion  as  to  his  "  mashing" 
Aunt  Anniky.  This  opinion  was  confirmed  the  next  day 
when  father  offered  her  his  congratulations.  "  You  are 
old  enough  to  know  your  own  mind,"  he  remarked. 

"  I's  ole,  maybe,"  said   Anniky,  "  but  so  is  a  oak-tree, 


THE    WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

an'  it's  rigorous,  I  reckon.  I's  a  purty  vigorous  sort  o' 
growth  myself,  an'  I  reckon  I'll  have  my  own  way  with 
Ned.  I'm  gwine  ter  fatten  dem  pigs  o'  hisn,  an'  you  see 
ef  I  don't  sell  'em  nex'  Christmas  fur  money  'nouf  ter  git  a 
new  string  o'  chany  teef." 

"•  Look  here,  Anniky,"  said  father,  with  a  burst  of 
generosity,  "you  and  Ned  will  quarrel  about  those  teeth 
till  the  day  of  doom,  so  1  will  make  you  a  wedding  pres- 
ent of  another  set,  that  you  may  begin  married  life  in 
harmony. ' ' 

Aunt  Anniky  expressed  her  gratitude.  "  An'  dis  time," 
she  said,  with  sudden  fury,  "  I  sleeps  wid  'em  in." 

The  teeth  were  presented,  and  the  wedding  preparations 
began.  The  expectant  bride  went  over  to  JSed's  cabin  and 
gave  it  such  a  clearing  up  as  it  had  never  had.  But  Ned 
did  not  seem  happy.  He  devoted  himself  entirely  to  his 
pigs,  and  wandered  about  looking  more  wizened  every  day. 
Finally  he  came  to  our  gate  and  beckoned  to  me  myste- 
riously. 

"  Come  over  to  my  house,  honey,"  he  whispered,  "  an' 
bring  a  pen  an'  ink  an'  a  piece  o'  paper  wid  yer.  I  wants 
yer  ter  write  me  a  letter." 

I  ran  into  the  house  for  my  little  writing-deek,  and  fol- 
lowed Uncle  Ned  to  his  cabin. 

"  Now,  honey,"  he  said,  after  barring  the  door  carefully, 
"  don't  you  ax  me  no  questions,  but  jes'  put  down  de 
words  dat  comes  out  o'  my  mouf  on  dat  ar  paper." 

';  Very  well,  (Jncle  Ned,  go  on." 

"  Anniky  Hobbleston,"  he  began,  "  dat  weddin'  ain't 
a-gwine  ter  come  off.  You  cleans  up  too  much  ter  suit  me. 
I  ain't  used  ter  so  much  water  splashin'  aroun'.  Dirt  is 


A    BRACE    OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  95 

warmin'.  'Spec  I'd  freeze  dis  winter  if  you  wuz  here. 
An'  you  got  too  much  tongue.  Besides,  I's  got  anudder 
wife  over  in  Tipper.  An'  I  ain't  a-gwine  ter  marry.  As 
fur  havin'  de  law,  I's  a  leavin'  dese  parts,  an'  I  takes  der 
pigs  wid  me.  Yer  can't  fin'  dem,  an'  yer  can't  fin'  me. 
Fur  I  aiii't  a-gwine  ter  marry.  I  wuz  born  a  bachelor, 
an'  a  bachelor  will  I  represent  myself  befo'  de  judgment- 
seat.  If  you  gives  yer  promise  ter  say  no  mo'  'bout  dis 
marryin'  business,  p'r'apsl'll  come  back  some  day.  So  no 
mo'  at  present,  from  your  humble  worshipper, 

"NED  CUDDY." 

"  Isn't  that  last  part  rather  inconsistent  ?"  said  I,  greatly 
amused. 

"  Yes,  honey,  if  yer  says  so  ;  an'  it's  kind  o'  soothin'  to 
de  feelin's  of  a  woman,  yer  know." 

I  wrote  it  all  down  and  read  it  aloud  to  Uncle  Ned. 

"  Now,  my  chile,"  he  said,  "  I'm  a-gwine  ter  git  on  my 
mule  as  soon  as  der  moon  rises,  an'  drive  my  pigs  ter  Col' 
Water  Gap,  whar  I'll  stay  an'  fish.  Soon  as  I  am  well 
gone,  you  take  dis  letter  ter  Anniky  ;  but  min\  don't  tell 
whar  I's  gone.  An'  if  she  takes  it  all  right,  an"  promises 
ter  let  me  alone,  you  write  me  a  letter,  an'  I'll  git  de  fust 
Methodis'  preacher  I  run  across  in  der  woods  ter  read  it  ter 
me.  Den,  ef  it's  all  right,  I'll  come  back  an'  weed  yer 
flower-garden  fur  yer  as  purty  as  preachin'." 

I  agreed  to  do  all  Uncle  Ned  asked,  and  we  parted  like 
conspirators.  The  next  morning  Uncle  Ned  was  missing, 
and,  after  waiting  a  reasonable  time  I  explained  the  matter 
to  my  parents,  and  went  over  with  his  letter  to  Aunt 
Anniky. 

"Powers  above!"    was  her  only   comment  as    I    got 


96  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

through  the  remarkable  epistle.  Then,  after  a  pause  to 
collect  her  thoughts,  she  seized  me  by  the  shoulder,  saying  : 
"  Run  to  yo'  pappy,  honey,  quick,  an'  ax  him  ef  he's 
gwine  ter  stick  ter  his  bargain  'bout  de  teef.  Yer  know  he 
pintedly  said  dey  wuz  a  weddiri  git''." 

Of  course  my  father  sent  word  that  she  must  keep  the 
teeth,  and  my  mother  added  a  message  of  sympathy,  with  a 
present  of  a  pocket-handkerchief  to  dry  Aunt  Anniky's  tears. 

"  But  it's  all  right,"  said  that  sensible  old  soul,  opening 
her  piano-lid  with  a  cheerful  laugh.  "  Bless  you,  chile,  it 
wuz  de  teef  I  wanted,  not  de  man  !  An',  honey,  you  jes' 
sen'  word  to  dat  shif'less  old  nigger,  ef  you  know  whar  he's 
gone,  to  come  back  home  and  git  his  crap  in  de  groun'  ; 
an',  as  fur  as  I'm  consarned,  yer  jes'  let  him  know  dat  I 
wouldn't  pick  him  up  wid  a  ten-foot  pole,  not  ef  he  wuz  to 
beg  me  on  his  knees  till  de  millennial  day.'' — From 
"Dialect  Tales"  published  in  1883  by  Harper  Brothers. 

It  is  not  easy  to  tell  what  satire  is,  or  where  it  originated. 
"In  Eden,"  says  Dryden,  "the  husband  and  wife  ex- 
cused themselves  by  laying  the  blamfi  on  each  other,  and 
gave  a  beginning  to  those  conjugal  dialogues  in  prose  whieh 
poets  have  perfected  inverse."  Whatever  it  maybe,  we 
know  it  when  it  cuts  us,  and  Sherwood  Bonner's  hit  on  the 
Radical  Club  of  Boston  was  almost  inexcusable. 

She  was  admitted  as  a  guest,  and  her  subsequent  ridicule 
was  a  violation  of  all  good  breeding.  But  like  so  many 
wicked  things  it  is  captivating,  and  while  you  are  shocked, 
you  laugh.  While  I  hold  up  both  hands  in  horror,  I  intend 
to  give  you  an  idea  of  it ;  leaving  out  the  most  personal 
verses. 


A   BE  ACE   OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  97 


THE  EADICAL  CLUB. 

BY     8HEKWOOD     BONNEB. 

Dear  friends,  I  crave  attention  to  some  facts  that  I  shall  mention 
About  a  Club  called  "  Radical,"  you  haven't  heard  before  ; 

Got  up  to  teach  the  nation  was  this  new  light  federation, 
To  teach  the  nation  how  to  think,  to  live,  and  to  adore  ; 
To  teach  it  of  the  heights  and  depths  that  all  men  should  explore  ; 
Only  this  and  nothing  more. 

It  is  not  my  inclination,  in  this  brief  communication, 

To  produce  a  false  impression — which  I  greatly  would  deplore — 

But  a  few  remarks  I'm  makin'  on  some  notes  a  chiel's  been  takin,' 
And,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  they'll  make  your  soul  upsoar, 
As  you  bend  your  eyes  with  eagerness  to  scan  these  verses  o'er  ; 
Truly  this  and  something  more. 

And  first,  dear  friends,  the  fact  is,  I'm  sadly  out  of  practice, 
And  may  fail  in  doing  justice  to  this  literary  bore  ; 

But  when  I  do  begin  it,  I  don't  think  'twill  take  a  minute 

To  prove  there's  nothing  in  it  (as  you've  doubtless  heard  before), 
But  a  free  religious  wrangling  club — of  this  I'm  very  sure — 
Only  this  and  nothing  more  ! 

'Twas  a  very  cordial  greeting,  one  bright  morning  of  their  meeting  ; 
Such  eager  salutations  were  never  heard  before. 

After  due  deliberation  on  the  importance  of  the  occasion, 
To  begin  the  organization,  Mr.  Pompous  took  the  floor 
With  an  air  quite  self-complacent,  strutted  up  and  took  the  floor, 
As  he'd  often  done  before  ! 

With  an  air  of  condescension  he  bespoke  their  close  attention 
To  an  essay  from  a  Wiseman  versed  in  theologic  lore  ; 

He  himself  had  had  the  pleasure  of  a  short  glance  at  the  treasure, 
And  in  no  stinted  measure  said  we  had  a  treat  in  store  ; 
Then  he  waved  his  hand  to  Wiseman  and  resigned  to  him  the  floor  ; 
Only  this  and  nothing  more. 


98  THE    WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

Quick  and  nervous,  short  and  wiry,  with  a  look  profound,  yet  fiery, 
Mr.  Wiseman  now  stepped  forward  and  eyed  us  darkly  o'er, 

Then  an  arm-chair,  quaint  and  olden,  gay  with  colors  green  and  golden, 
By  the  pretty  hostess  rolled  in  from  its  place  behind  the  door, 
Was  offered  to  the  reader,  in  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
And  he  took  the  chair  be  sure. 

Then  with  arguments  elastic,  and  a  voice  and  eye  sarcastic, 

Mr.  Wiseman  into  flinders  the  Holy  Bible  tore  ; 
And  he  proved  beyond  all  question  that  the  God  of  Moses'  mention 

Was  a  fraudulent  invention  of  some  Hebrews,  three  or  four, 

And  the  Son  of  God's  ascension  an  imaginary  soar  ! 
Only  this  and  nothing  more. 

Each  member  then  admitted  that  his  part  was  well  acquitted, 

For  his  strong,  impassioned  reasoning  had  touched  them  to  the  core  ; 
He  felt  sure,  as  he  surveyed  them  through   his  specs,   that  he  had 

"  played  "  them, 

And  was  proud  that  he  had  made  them  all  astonished  by  his  lore  ; 
Not  a  continental  cared  he  for  the  fruits  such  lessons  bore, 
So  he  bowed  and  left  the  floor. 

Then  a  Colonel,  cold  and  smiling,  with  a  stately  air  beguiling, 
Who  punctuates  his  paragraphs  on  Newport's  sounding  shore, 

Said  his  friend  was  wise  and  witty,  and  yet  it  seemed  a  pity 
To  destroy  in  this  old  city  the  belief  it  had  before 
In  the  ancient  superstitions  of  the  days  of  yore. 
This  he  said,  and  something  more. 

Orthodoxy,  he  lamented,  thoiight  the  Christian  world  demented, 
Yet  still  he  felt  a  rev'rence  as  he  read  the  Bible  o'er, 

And  he  thought  the  modern  preacher,  though  a  poor  stick  for  a  teacher, 
Or  a  broken  reed,  like  Beecher,  ought  to  have  his  claims  looked  o'er, 
And  the  "  tyranny  of  science"  was  indeed,  he  felt  quite  sure, 
Our  danger  more  and  more. 

His  remarks  our  pulses  quicken,  when  a  British  Lion,  stricken 

With  his  wondrous  self-importance—he  knew  everything  and  more — 
Said  he  loathed  such  moderation  ;  and  he  made  his  declaration 


A    BRACE    OF    WITTY    \\OMKN.  99 

That,  in  spite  of  all  creation,  he  found  no  God  to  adore  ; 
And  his  voice  was  like  the  ocean  as  its  surges  loudly  roar  ; 

Only  this  and  nothing  more. 

******* 
But  the  interest  now  grew  lukewarm,  for  an  ancient  Conco  rd  book-worm 

With  authoritative  tramping,  forward  came  and  took  the  floor, 
And  in  Orphic  mysticisms  talked  of  life  and  light  and  prisms, 
And  the  Infinite  baptisms  on  a  transcendental  shore, 
And  the  concrete  metaphysic,  till  we  yawned  in  anguish  sore  ; 
But  still  he  kept  the  floor. 

Then  uprose  a  kindred  spirit  almost  ready  to  inherit 

The  rare  and  radiant  Aiden  that  he  begged  us  to  adore  ; 
His  smile  was  beaming  brightly,  and  his  soft  hair  floated  whitely 
Bound  a  face  as  fair  and  sightly  as  a  pious  priest's  of  yore  ; 
And  we  forgave  the  arguments  worn  out  years  before, 

For  we  loved  this  saintly  bore. 

******* 
Then  a  lively  little  charmer,  noted  as  a  dress  reformer, 

Because  that  mystic  garment,  chemiloon,  she  wore, 
Said  she  had  no  "  views"  of  Jesus,  and  therefore  would  not  tease  us, 
But  that  she  thought  'twould  please  us  to  look  her  figure  o'er, 
For  she  wore  no  bustles  anywhere,  and  corsets,  she  felt  sure, 
Should  squeeze  her  nevermore. 

This  pretty  little  pigeon  said  of  course  the  true  religion 
Demanded  ease  of  body  before  the  mind  could  soar  ; 

But  that  no  emancipation  could  come  unto  our  nation 
Until  the  aggregation  of  the  clothes  that  women  wore 
Were  suspended  from  the  shoulders,  and  smooth  with  many  a  gore, 
Plain  behind  and  plain  before  ! 

Her  remarks  were  full  of  reason,  but  a  little  out  of  season, 
And  the  proper  tone  of  talking  Mr.  Fairman  did  restore, 
When  he  sneered  at  priests  and  preaching,  and  indorsed  the  Index  teach 

ing, 

And  with  philanthropic  screeching,  said  he  sought  for  evermore 
The  light  of  sense  and  freedom  into  darkened  minds  to  pour  ; 
Truly  this,  but  something  more  ! 


100  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Then  with  eyes  as  bright  as  Phoebus,  and  hair  dark  as  Erebus, 
A  maid  with  stunning  eye-glass  next  appeared  upon  the  floor  ; 

In  her  aspect  she  looked  regal,  though  her  words  were  few  and  feeble, 
But  she  vowed  his  logic  legal  and  as  pure  as  golden  ore, 
And  indorsed  the  Index  editor  in  every  word  he  swore, 
And  then — said  nothing  more. 

Then  a  tall  and  red-faced  member,  large  and  loose  and  somewhat  limber 

(And  though  his  creed  was  shaky,  he  the  name  of  Bishop  bore), 
Said  that  if  he  lived  forever,  he  should  forget,  ah  !  never, 
The  Radicals  so  clever,  in  Boston  by  the  shore  ; 
But  a  bad  gold  in  his  'ead  bust  stop  his  saying  bore, 

And  we  all  cried  encore. 

******* 
Then  a  rarely  gifted  mortal,  to  whom  the  triple  portal 

Of  Music,  Art,  and  Poesy  had  opened  years  before, 
With  a  look  of  sombre  feeling,  depths  within  his  soul  revealing, 
Leaving  room  for  no  appealing,  he  decided  o'er  and  o'er 
The  old,  old  vexing  questions  of  the  why  and  the  wherefore, 
And  taught  us — nothing  more. 

There  are  others  I  could  mention  who  took  part  in  this  contention, 

And  at  first  'twas  my  intention,  but  at  present  I  forbear  ; 
There's  young  Look-sharp,  and   Wriggle,   who  would   make   an  angel 

giggle, 

And  a  young  conceited  Zeigel,  who  was  seated  near  the  door  ; 
If  you  could  only  see  them,  you'd  laugh  till  you  were  sore, 
And  then  you'd  laugh  some  more. 

But,  dear  friends,  I  now  must  close,  of  these  Radicals  dispose, 
For  I  am  sad  and  weary  as  I  view  their  follv  o'er  ; 

Jn  their  wild  Utopian  dreaming,  and  impracticable  scheming 
For  a  sinful  world's  redeeming,  common  sense  flies  out  the  door, 
And  the  long-drawn  dissertations  come  to — words  and  nothing  more  ; 
Only  words,  and  nothing  more. 

Mary  Clemmer  Hudson  has  spoken  of  Phoebe  Gary  as 
"  the  wittiest  woman  in  America."     But  she  truly  adds  : 


WALt 

A   BRACE   OF    WITTY    WOMEN.  L— 

"  A  flash  of  wit,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  can  only  be 
remembered,  it  cannot  be  reproduced.  Its  very  marvel 
lies  in  its  spontaneity  and  evanescence  ;  its  power  is  in 
be'ing  struck  from  the  present.  Divorced  from  that,  the 
keenest  representation  of  it  seems  cold  and  dead.  We  read 
over  the  few  remaining  sentences  which  attempt  to  embody 
the  repartees  and  bon  mots  of  the  most  famous  wits  of 
society,  such  as  Beau  l^ash,  Beau  Brummel,  Madame  du 
Deffand,  and  Lady  Mary  Montagu  ;  we  wonder  at  the  pov- 
erty of  these  memorials  of  their  fame.  Thus  it  must  be 
with  Phoabe  Gary.  Her  most  brilliant  sallies  were  per- 
fectly unpremeditated,  and  by  herself  never  repeated  or 
remembered.  When  she  was  in  her  best  moods  they  came 
like  flashes  of  heat  lightning,  like  a  rush  of  meteors,  so 
suddenly  and  constantly  you  were  dazzled  while  you  were 
delighted,  and  afterward  found  it  difficult  to  single  out  any 
distinct  flash  or  separate  meteor  from  the  multitude.  .  .  . 
This  most  wonderful  of  her  gifts  can  only  be  represented 
by  a  few  stray  sentences  gleaned  here  and  there  from  the 
faithful  memories  of  loving  friends.  .  .  . 

"  One  tells  how,  at  a  little  party,  where  fun  rose  to  a 
great  height,  one  quiet  person  was  suddenly  attacked  by  a 
gay  lady  with  the  question  :  '  Why  don't  you  laugh  ?  You 
sit  there  just  like  a  post  ! ' 

"  '  There  !  she  called  you  a  post  ;  why  don't  you  rail  at 
her  ? '  was  Phoebe's  quick  exclamation. 

"  Mr.  Barnum  mentioned  to  her  that  the  skeleton  man 
and  the  fat  woman  then  on  exhibition  in  his  '  greatest  show 
on  earth  '  were  married. 

"  '  I  suppose  they  loved  through  thick  and  thin, '  was  her 
comment. 


102  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  '  On  one  occasion,  when  Plioebe  was  at  the  Museum 
looking  about  at  the  curiosities,'  says  Mr.  Barnum,  '  I  pre- 
ceded her  and  had  passed  down  a  couple  of  steps.  She, 
intently  watching  a  big  anaconda  in  a  case  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  walked  off,  not  noticing  them,  and  fell.  I  was  just 
in  time  to  catch  her  in  my  arms  and  save  her  from  a  good 
bruising. 

"  '  I  am  more  lucky  than  that  first  woman  \vas  who  fell 
through  the  influence  of  the  serpent,'  said  Phcebe,  as  she 
recovered  herself. 

"  And  when  asked  by  some  one  at  a  dinner-party  what 
brand  of  champagne  they,  kept,  she  replied  :  '  Oh,  we  drink 
Heidsieck,  but  we  keep  Mum.' 

"  Again,  a  certain  well-known  actor,  then  recently  de- 
ceased, and  more  conspicuous  for  his  professional  skill  than 
for  his  private  virtues,  was  discussed.  'We  shall  never,' 

remarked  some  one,  '  see again.' 

•"  '  No,'  quietly  responded  Plioebe,  '  not  unless  we  go  to 
the  pit.'". 

These  stray  shots  may  not  fairly  represent  Miss  Gary's 
brilliancy,  but  we  are  grateful  for  what  has  been  preserved, 
meagre  as  it  would  seem  to  those  who  had  the  privilege  of 
knowing  her  intimately  and  enjoying  those  Sunday  evening 
receptions,  where,  unrestrained  and  happy,  every  one  was 
at  his  best. 

Her  verses  on  the  subject  of  Woman's  Rights,  as  dis- 
cussed in  masculine  fashion,  with  masculine  logic,  by  Chan- 
ticleer Dorking,  are  capital,  and  her  parodies,  shockingly 
literal,  have  been  widely  copied.  Enjoy  these  as  given  in 
her  life,  written  by  Mary  Clemmer. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

GINGER-SNAPS. 

I  WILL  now  offer  you  some  good  things  of  various  degrees 
of  humor.  I  do  not  feel  it  necessary  to  impress  their  merits 
upon  you,  for  they  speak  for  themselves.  Here  is  a  quaint 
bit  of  satire  from  a  bright  Boston  woman,  which  those  on 
her  side  of  the  vexed  Indian  question  will  enjoy  : 

THE   INDIAN  AGENT. 

BY   LOUISA    HALL. 

He  was  a  long,  lean  man,  with  a  sad  expression,  as  if 
weighed  down  by  pity  for  poor  humanity.  His  heart  was 
evidently  a  great  many  sizes  too  large  for  him.  He  yearned 
to  enfold  all  tribes  and  conditions  of  men  in  his  encircling 
arms.  He  surveyed  his  audience  with  such  affectionate  in- 
terest that  he  seemed  to  look  into  the  very  depths  of  their 
pockets. 

A  few  resolute  men  buttoned  their  coats,  but  the  major- 
ity knew  that  this  artifice  would  not  save  them,  and  they 
rather  enjoyed  it  as  a  species  of  harmless  dissipation. 
They  liked  to  be  talked  into  a  state  of  exhilaration  which 
obliged  them  to  give  without  thinking  much  about  it,  and 
they  felt  very  good  and  benevolent  afterward.  So  they 
cheered  the  agent  enthusiastically,  as  a  signal  for  him  to 
begin,  and  he  came  forward  bowing,  while  the  three  red 


104  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

brothers  who  accompanied  him  remained  seated  on  the 
platform.  He  appeared  to  smile  on  every  one  present  as 
he  said  : 

"  Friends  and  Fellow-Citizens,  I  have  the  honor  to  intro- 
duce to  yon  these  chiefs  of  the  Laughing  Dog  Nation. 
Twenty-five  years  ago  this  tribe  was  one  of  the  fiercest  on 
our  Western  plains.  Snarling  Bear,  the  most  noted  chief 
of  his  tribe,  was  a  great  warrior.  Fifty  scalps  adorned  his 
wigwam.  Some  of  them  had  once  belonged  to  his  best 
friends.  He  was  murdered  while  in  the  prime  of  life  by  a 
white  man  whose  wife  he  had  accidentally  shot  at  the  door 
of  her  cabin.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to  u-elcome  the  white 
men  and  adopt  the  improvements  they  brought  with  them. 
When  lie  became  sufficiently  civilized  to  understand  that 
polygamy  was  unlawful,  he  separated  from  his  oldest  wife. 
Her  scalp  was  carefully  preserved  among  those  of  the  great 
warriors  he  had  conquered.  His  son,  Flying  Deer,  who  is 
with  us  to-day,  will  address  you  in  his  own  language,  which 
I  shall  interpret  for  you.  The  last  twenty  years  have  made 
a  great  change  in  their  condition.  These  men  are  not 
savages,  but  educated  gentlemen.  They  are  all  graduates 
of  Tomahawk  College,  at  Bloody  .Mountain,  near  the  Gray 
Wolf  country.  They  are  chiefs  of  their  tribes,  eacb  one 
holding  a  position  equal  to  the  Governor  of  our  own  State. 
Their  influence  at  the  West  is  great.  Last  year  they  sent  a 
small  party  of  missionaries  to  the  highlands  of  the  Wolf 
country,  where  the  women  and  children  pasture  the  ponies 
during  the  dry  season.  Not  one  of  these  noble  men  ever 
returned.  Unfortunately  for  the  success  of  this  mission, 
the  Gray  Wolf  warriors  were  at  home.  The  medicine 
man's  dreams  had  been  unfavorable,  and  they  dared  not  set 


GINGER  SNAPS.  105 

out  on  their  annual  hunt.     This  year  they  will  send  a  larger 
party  well  armed. 

"  These  devoted  men  have  left  their  Western  homes  and 
come  here  to  assure  you  of  their  confidence  in  your  affec- 
tion, and  the  love  and  gratitude  they  feel  toward  you. 
They  come  to  ask  for  churches  and  schools,  that  their  chil- 
dren may  grow  up  like  yours.  But  these  things  require 
money.  On  account  of  the  great  scarcity  of  stone  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  necessity  of  preserving  standing 
timber  for  the  Indian  hunting-grounds,  all  building  mate- 
rials for  churches  and  school-houses  must  be  carried  from 
the  East  at  great  expense.  The  door-steps  of  the  third 
orthodox  Kickapoo  church  cost  one  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars. But  it  is  money  well  invested.  The  gradual  decrease 
of  crime  at  the  West  has  convinced  the  most  sceptical  that 
a  great  work  can  be  done  among  these  people.  The  num- 
ber of  murders  committed  in  this  country  last  year  was  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  ;  this  year  only  one  hundred  and 
twenty-three. 

"  Although  a  great  deal  has  been  done  for  these  people, 
you  will  be  surprised  to  learn  how  much  remains  to  be 
done.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  every  dollar  intrusted  to  me 
will  be  spent,  and  I  hope  you  will  live  to  see  the  result  of 
your  generosity. 

"  I  wish  to  build  at  least  fifteen  churches  and  school- 
houses  before  the  cold  weather  sets  in.  The  cost  of  build- 
ing has  been  greatly  lessened  by  employing  native  work- 
men, who  are  capable  of  designing  and  erecting  simple  edi- 
fices. The  pulpits  will  be  supplied  by  native  preachers, 
and  the  expense  of  light  and  heat  will  be  paid  by  the  con- 
gregation. 


106  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  We  have  at  least  twenty-five  well-qualified  native 
teachers,  who  will  require  no  salary  beyond  the  necessary 
expense  of  food  and  clothing. 

"  A  few  boarding-houses  must  be  built  and  tastefully 
furnished.  We  have  a  large  number  of  Laughing  Dog 
widows,  w"ho  would  gladly  take  charge  of  such  establish- 
ments. 

"  The  native  committee  will  make  a  careful  selection  of 
such  matrons  as  are  most  capable  of  guiding  and  encourag- 
ing young  people. 

"  All  money  for  the  benefit  of  these  people  has  been  used 
with  the  strictest  economy,  and  will  be  while  I  retain  the 
agency.  I  have  secured  a  slender  provision  for  my  declin- 
ing years,  and  shall  return  to  spend  my  days  with  my 
adopted  people. 

"  But  I  will  let  these  men  who  once  owned  this  great 
country  speak  for  themselves.  Flying  Deer,  who  will  now 
address  you,  is  about  forty  years  of  age.  He  lives  with  his 
wife  and  ten  children  near  the  agency,  at  a  place  called 
Plumanketchet. ' ' 

Flying  Deer  came  forward  and  spoke  very  distinctly, 
though  rapidly. 

"  O  hoo  bree-gutchee,  gumme  mawr  choo  kibbe  showain 
nemeshin.  Dawmasse  choochugah  goo  waugh  ;  kawboo. 
Nokka  brewisgoo,  honowin  nudwag  moonoo  shugh  kawmun 
menjeis.  Babas  kwasind  waugh  muskoday,  wawa  gesson- 
won  goo.  Nahma  naskeen  oza  yenadisse  may  ben  mud  jo, 
kenemoosha.  Wawconassee  nushka  kahgagoo,  jossahut, 
wabenas  ogu  winemon  juba.  Ahmuck  wana  wayroossen 
chooponnuk  segwan  maysen.  Opeechee  annewayman, 
kewadoda  shenghen  kad  goo  tagamengow." 


GINGER-SNAPS.  10  < 

"  He  says,  my  friends,  that  he  has  always  loveu  and 
trusted  the  white  people.  He  says  that  since  he  has  seen 
the  great  cities  and  towns  of  the  East,  he  loves  his  white 
brothers  more  than  before.  His  red  brothers,  White  Crow 
and  the  Rock  on  End,  wish  him  to  say  that  they  also  love 
you.  He  says  the  savage  Gray  Wolf  tribe  threaten  to  shoot 
and  scalp  them  if  they  continue  friendly  to  the  whites.  He 
asks  for  powder,  guns,  and  ponies,  that  they  may  defend 
themselves  from  their  enemies.  He  wants  to  convince  you 
that  they  are  rapidly  becoming  a  civilized  nation.  The 
assistance  you  are  about  to  give  will  only  be  required  for  a 
short  time.  They  will  soon  become  self-supporting,  and 
relieve  the  Government  of  a  heavy  tax.  They  thank  you 
for  the  kindness  you  have  shown,  and  for  the  generous  col- 
lection which  will  now  be  taken  up. 

"  Will  some  friend  close  the  doors  while  we  give  every 
one  an  opportunity  to  contribute  to  this  good  cause  ?  Re- 
member that  he  who  shutteth  up  his  ears  to  the  cry  of  the 
poor,  he  shall  also  cry  himself  and  shall  not  be  heard. 
Those  who  prefer  can  leave  a  check  with  Deacon  Meekham 
at  the  door,  or  with  me  at  the  hotel.  These  substantial 
tokens  of  your  regard  will  cause  the  wilderness  to  blossom 
as  the  rose. 

"  In  the  name  of  our  red  brethren,  let  me  again  thank 
you." 

If  one  inclines  to  Irish  fun,  try  this  burlesque  from  Mrs. 
Lippincott. 


108  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

MISTRESS  O'RAFFERTY  ON  THE   WOMAN  QUESTION. 

BY   GBACE   GREENWOOD. 

No  !  I  wouldn't  demane  myself,  Bridget, 
Like  you,  in  disputin'  with  men — 

Would  I  fly  in  the  face  of  the  blissed 
Apostles,  an'  Father  Maginn  ? 

It  isn't  the  talent  I'm  wantin' — 

Sure  my  father,  ould  Michael  McCrary, 

Made  a  beautiful  last  spache  and  confession 
When  they  hanged  him  in  ould  Tipperary. 

So,  Bridget  Muldoon,  howld  yer  talkin' 
About  Womins'  Rights,  and  all  that ! 

Sure  all  the  rights  I  want  is  the  one  right, 
To  be  a  good  helpmate  to  Pat  ; 

For  he's  a  good  husband— and  niver 
Laj  s  on  me  the  weight  of  his  hand 

Except  when  he's  far  gone  in  liquor, 
And  I  nag  him,  you'll  plase  understand. 

Thrue  for  ye,  I've  one  eye  in  mournin', 
That's  becaze  I  disputed  hin  right, 

To  tak'  and  spind  all  my  week's  earnin's 
At  Tim  Mulligan's  wake,  Sunday  night. 

But  it's  sildom  when  I've  done  a  washin', 
He  11  ask  for  more'n  half  of  the  pay  ; 

An'  he'll  toss  me  my  share,  wid  a  smile,  dear, 
That's  like  a  swate  mornin'  in  May  ! 

Now  where,  if  I  rin  to  convintions, 

Will  be  Patrick's  home-comforts  and  joys? 

Who'll  clane  up  his  broghans  for  Sunday, 
Or  patch  up  his  ould  corduroys. 

If  we  tak'  to  the  polls,  night  and  mornin', 
Our  dilicate  charms  will  all  flee — 

The  dew  will  be  brushed  from  the  rose,  dear, 
The  down  from  the  pache  —don't  you  see  ? 


GINGER-SNAPS.  109 

We'll  soon  tak'  to  shillalahs  and  shindies 

Whin  we  get  to  be  sovereign  electors, 
And  turn  all  our  husbands'  hearts  from  us, 

Thin  what  will  we  do  for  protectors? 

We'll  have  to  be  crowners  an'  judges, 

An'  such  like  ould  malefactors, 
Or  they'll  make  Common  Councilmin  of  us  ; 

Thin  where  will  be  our  char-acters  ? 

Oh,  Bridget,  God  save  us  from  votin'  ! 

For  sure  as  the  blissed  sun  rolls, 
We'll  land  in  the  State  House  or  Congress, 

Thin  what  will  become  of  our  sowls  ? 

Or  the  triumphs  of  a  quack,  by  Miss  Amanda  T.  Jones. 

DOCHTHEK  O'FLANNIGAN  AND  HIS  WONDHEEFUL  CURES. 

I. 

I'm  Barney  O'Flannigan,  lately  from  Cork  ; 
I've  crossed  the  big  watther  as  bould  as  a  shtork. 
'Tis  a  dochther  I  am  and  well  versed  in  the  thrade  ; 
I  can  mix  yez  a  powdher  as  good  as  is  made. 
Have  yez  pains  in  yer  bones  or  a  throublesome  ache 
In  yer  jints  afther  dancin'  a  jig  at  a  wake  ? 
Have  yez  caught  a  black  eye  from  some  blundhering  whack? 
Have  yez  vertebral  twists  in  the  sphine  av  yer  back? 
Whin  ye're  walkin'  the  shtrates  are  yez  likely  to  fall  ? 
Don't  whiskey  sit  well  on  yer  shtomick  at  all? 
Sure  'tis  botherin'  nonsinse  to  sit  down  and  wape 
Whin  a  bit  av  a  powdher  ull  put  yez  to  shlape. 
Shtate  yer  symptoms,  me  darlins,  and  niver  yez  doubt 
But  as  sure  as  a  gun  I  can  shtraighten  yez  out ! 
Thin  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more  ; 

Arrah  !  quit  all  yer  sighin'  forlorn  ; 
Here's  Barney  O'Flannigan  right  to  the  fore, 

And  bedad  !  he's  a  gintleman  born  ! 


110  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

II. 

Ooom  thin,  ye  poor  craytnres  and  don't  yez  be  scairt ! 
Have  yez  batin'  and  lumberin'  thumps  at  the  hairt, 
Wid  ossification,  and  acceleration, 
Wid  fatty  accration  and  bad  vellication, 
Wid  liver  inflation  and  hapitization, 
Wid  lung  inflammation  and  brain-adumbration, 
Wid  black  aruptation  and  schirrhous  formation, 
Wid  nerve  irritation  and  paralyzation, 
Wid  extravasation  and  acrid  sacration, 
Wid  great  jactitation  and  exacerbation, 
Wid  shtrong  palpitation  and  wake  circulation, 
Wid  quare  titillation  and  cowld  perspiration  ? 
Be  the  powers  !  but  I'll  bring  all  yer  woes  to  complation, 
Onless  yer  in  love — thin  jer  past  all  salvation  ! 

Coom,  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  moie  ! 
Be  quit  wid  yer  sighin'  forlorn  ; 

Here's  the  man  all  yer  haling  potations  to  pour, 
And  ye'll  prove  him  a  gintleman  born  ! 

III. 

Sure,  me  frinds,  'tis  the  wondherful  luck  I  have  had 
In  the  thratement  av  sickness  no  mtttther  how  bad. 
All  the  hundhreds  I've  cured  'tis  not  aisy  to  shpake, 
And  if  any  sowl  dies,  faith  I'm  in  at  the  wake  ; 
There  was  Misthriss  O'Toole  was  tuck  down  mighty  quare, 
That  wild  there  was  niver  a  one  dared  to  lave  her  ; 
And  phat  was  the  matther  ?     Ye'll  like  for  to  hare  ; 
'Twas  the  double  quotidian  humerous  faver. 
Well,  I  tuck  out  me  lancet  and  pricked  at  a  vein, 
(Och,  murther  !  but  didn't  she  howl  at  the  pain  !) 
Six  quarts,  not  a  dhrap  less  I  drew  widout  sham, 
And  troth  she  shtopped  howlin',  and  lay  like  a  lamb. 
Thin  for  fare  sich  a  method  av  thratement  was  risky, 
I  hasthened  to  fill  up  the  void  wid  ould  whiskey. 
Och  !  niver  be  gravin'  no  more  ! 

Phat  use  av  yer  sighiii'  forlorn  ? 
Me  patients  are  proud  av  me  midical  lore — 

They'll  shware  I'm  a  gintleman  born. 


GINGER-SNAPS.  Ill 

IV. 

Well,  Misthriss  O'Toole  was  tuck  betther  at  once, 

For  she  riz  up  in  bed  and  cried  :  "  Paddy,  ye  dunce  ! 

Give  the  dochther  a  dhram.     So  I  sat  at  me  aise 

A  brewin'  the  punch  jist  as  fine  as  ye  plaze. 

Thin  I  lift  a  prascription  all  written  down  nate 

Wid  ametics  and  diaphoretics  complate  ; 

Wid  anti-shpasmodics  to  kape  her  so  quiet, 

And  a  toddy  so  shtiff  that  ye'd  all  like  to  thry  it. 

So  Paddy  O'Toole  mixed  'em  well  in  a  cup — 

All  barrin'  the  toddy,  and  that  he  dhrunk  up  ; 

For  he  shwore  'twas  a  shame  sich  good  brandy  to  waste 

On  a  double  quotidian  faverish  taste  ; 

And  troth  we  agrade  it  was  not  bad  to  take, 

Whin  we  dhrank  that  same  toddy  nixt  night— at  the  wake  I 

Arrah  !  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more, 
Wid  yer  moanin"  and  sighin'  forlorn  ; 

Here's  Barney  O'Flannigan  thrue  to  the  core 
Av  the  hairt  of  a  gintleman  born  ! 

V. 

There  was  Michael  McDonegan  down  wid  a  fit 

Caught  av  dhrinkin'  cowld  watther — whin  tipsy — a  bit. 

'T would  have  done  yer  hairt  good  to  have  heard  him  cry  out 

For  a  cup  of  potheen  or  a  tankard  av  shtout, 

Or  a  wee  dhrap  av  whiskey,  new  out  av  the  shtill  ; — 

And  the  shnakes  that  he  saw— troth  'twas  jist  fit  to  kill ! 

It  was  Mania  Pototororum,  bedad  ! 

Holy  Mithor  av  Moses  !  the  divils  he  had  ! 

Thin  to  scare  'em  away  we  surroonded  his  bed, 

Clapt  on  forty  laches  and  blisthered  his  head, 

Bate  all  the  tin  pans  and  set  up  sich  a  howl, 

That  the  last  fiery  divil  ran  off,  be  me  sowl  ! 

And  we  writ  on  his  tombsthone,  "  He  died  av  a  shpell 

Caught  av  dhrinkin'  cowld  watther  shtraight  out  av  a  well." 

Now  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more, 
Surrinder  yer  sighin'  forlorn  ! 

'Twill  be  fine  whin  ye  cross  to  the  Stygian  shore, 
To  be  sint  by  a  gintleman  born. 


112  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

VI. 

There  was  swate  Ellen  Mulligan,  sazed  wid  a  cough, 
And  ivery  one  said  it  would  carry  her  off. 

"  "Whisht,"  says  I,  "  thrust  to  me,  now,  and  don't  yez  go  crazy  ; 
If  the  girlie  must  die,  sure  I'll  make  her  die  aisy  !" 
So  I  sairched  through  me  books  for  the  thrue  diathasis 
Of  morbus  dyscrasia  tuburculous  pbthasis  ; 
And  I  boulsthered  her  up  wid  the  shtrongest  av  tonics. 
Wid  iron  and  copper  and  hosts  av  carbonics  ; 
Wid  whiskey  sarved  shtraight  in  the  finest  av  shtyle, 
And  I  grased  all  her  inside  wid  cod-liver  ile  ! 
And  says  she  (whin  she  died),  ' '  Och,  dochiher,  me  honey, 
'Tis  you  as  can  give  us  the  worth  av  our  money  ; 
And  begorra,  I'll  shpake  to  the  divil  this  day 
Not  to  kape  yez  a-waitin'  too  long  for  yer  pay." 

So  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more  ! 
To  the  dogs  wid  yer  sighin'  forlorn  ! 

Here's  dhrugs  be  the  handful  and  pills  be  the  score, 
And  to  dale  thim  a  gintleman  born. 

VII. 

There  was  Teddy  Maloney  who  bled  at  the  nose 
Afther  blowin'  the  fife  ;  and  mayhap  ye'd  suppose 
'Twas  no  matther  at  all  ;  but  the  books  all  agrade 
Twas  a  sarious  visceral  throuble  indade  ; 
Wid  the  blood  swimmin'  roond  in  a  circle  elliptic, 
The  Schneidarian  membrane  was  wantin'  a  shtyptic  ; 
The  antarior  nares  were  nadin'  a  plug, 
And  Teddy  himself  was  in  nade  av  a  jug. 
Thin  I  rowled  out  a  big  pill  av  sugar  av  lead, 
And  I  dosed  him,  and  shtood  him  up  firm  on  his  head, 
And  says  I  :  "  Now,  me  lad,  don't  be  atin'  yer  lingth, 
But  dhrink  all  ye  plaze,  jist  to  kape  up  yer  shtringth." 
Faith  !     His  widdy's  a  jewel !     But  whisht !  don't  ye  shpake  ! 
She'll  be  Misthriss  O'Flannigan  airly  nixt  wake. 

Coom,  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more  ! 
Shmall  use  av  yer  sighin'  forlorn  ; 

For  yer  widdies,  belike,  whin  their  mournin'  is  o'er, 
May  marry  some  gintleman  born. 


GINGEK-SNAPS.  113 

VIII. 

Ould  Biddy  O' Cardigan  lived  all  alone, 

And  she  felt  mighty  nate  wid  a  house  av  her  own — 

Shwate-smellin'  and  houlsome,  swaped  clane  wid  a  rake, 

Wid  two  or  thray  pigs  jist  for  company's  sake. 

Well,  phat  should  she  get  but  the  malady  vile 

Av  cholera-phobia-vomitus-bile  ! 

And  she  sint  straight  for  me  :  "  Dochther  Barney,  me  lad," 

Says  she,  "  I'm  in  nade  av  assistance,  bedad  ! 

Have  yez  niver  a  powdher  or  bit  av  a  pill  ? 

Me  shtomick's  a  rowlin'  ;  jist  make  it  kape  shtill !" 

"  I'm  the  boy  can  do  that,"  says  I  ;  "  hould  on  a  minit, 

Here's  me  midicine-chist  wid  me  calomel  in  it, 

And  I'll  make  yez  a  bowle  full  av  rid  pipper  tay 

So  shtrong  ye'll  be  thinkin'  the  divils  to  pay." 

Now  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more  ! 
Be  quit  wid  yer  sighin'  forlorn, 

Wid  shtrychnine  and  vitriol  and  opium  galore, 
Behould  me — a  gintleman  born. 

IX. 

Wid  a  gallon  av  rum  thin  a  flip  I  created, 
Shwate.  wid  musthard  and  shpice  ;  and  the  poker  I  hated 
As  rid  as  a  guinea  jist  out  av  the  mint — 
And  into  her  shtomick,  begorra,  it  wint  ! 
Och,  niver  belave  me,  but  didn't  she  roar  ! 
I'd  have  kaped  her  alive  wid  a  quart  or  two  more  ; 
And  the  thray  little  pigs  iu  that  house  av  her  own 
Wouldn't  now  be  a-shtarvin'  and  shqualin'  alone. 
And  that  gossoon,  her  boy  —the  shpalpeen  altogither  ! — 
Would  niver  have  shworn  that  I  murdhered  his  mither. 
Troth,  for  sayin'  that  same,  but  I  sarved  him  a  thrick, 
Whin  I  met  him  by  chance  wid  a  bit  av  a  shtick. 
Faith,  I  dochthered  him  well  till  the  cure  I  complated, 
And,  be  jabers  !  there's  one  man  alive  that  I  thrated  I 
So  don't  yez  be  gravin'  no  more  ; 

To  the  dogs  wid  yez  sighin'  forlorn  ! 
Arrah  !  knock  whin  ye're  sick  at  O'Flannigan's  door, 

And  dio  for  a  gintleman  born  ! 

Magazine,.  1880. 


114:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Or,  if  one  prefers  to  laugh  at  the  experience  of  a  "  culled  " 
brother,  what  can  be  found  more  irresistible  than  this  ? 

THE   OLD-TIME   RELIGION. 

BY   JULIA   PICKERING. 

Brother  Simon.  I  say,  Brover  Horace,  I  hearn  you  give 
Meriky  de  terriblest  beating  las'  nite.  What  you  and  she 
hab  a  fallin'-out  about  ? 

Brother  Horace.  Well,  Brover  Simon,  you  knows  your- 
se''f  I  never  has  no  dejection  to  splanifying  how  1  rules  my 
folks  at  home,  and  'stablishes  order  dar  when  it's  p'intedly 
needed  ;  and  'fore  gracious  !  I  leab  you  to  say  dis  time  ef 
'twant  needed,  and  dat  pow'ful  bad. 

You  see,  I'se  allers  been  a  plain,  straight-sided  nigger, 
an'  hain't  never  had  no  use  for  new  fandangles,  let  it  be 
what  it  mout  ;  'ligion,  polytix,  bisness — don't  ker  what. 
Ole  Horace  say  :  "  De  ole  way  am  de  bes'  way,  an'  you 
niggers  dat's  all  runnin'  teetotleum  crazy  'bout  ebery  new 
gimcrack  dat's  started,  better  jes'  stay  whar  you  is  and  let 
them  things  alone."  But  dey  won't  do  it  ;  no  'mount  of 
preaching  won't  sarve  um.  And  dat  is  jes'  at  this  particke- 
ler  pint  dat  Meriky  got  dat  dressin'.  She  done  been  off  to 
Richmun  town,  a-livin'  in  sarvice  dar  dis  las'  winter,  and 
Saturday  a  week  ago  she  earned  home  ter  make  a  visit. 
Course  we  war  all  glad  to  see  our  darter.  But  you  b'l'eve 
dat  gal  hadn't  turned  stark  bodily  naked  fool  ?  Yes,  sir  ; 
she  wa'n't  no  more  like  de  Meriky  dat  went  away  jes'  a  few 
munts  ago  dan  chalk's  like  cheese.  Dar  she  come  in  wid 
her  close  pinned  tight  enuff  to  hinder  her  from  squattin', 
an'  her  ha'r  a-danglin'  right  in  her  eyes,  jes'  for  all  de 


GINGER-SNAPS.  1  15 

worl'  like  a  ram  a-looking  fru  a  brush-pile,  and  you  think 
dat  nigger  hain't  forgot  how  to  talk  !  She  jes'  rolled  up 
her  eyes  ebery  oder  word,  and  fanned  and  talked  like  she 
'spected  to  die  de  nex'  breff.  She'd  toss  dat  mush-head  ob 
hern  and  talk  proper  as  two  dixunarys.  'Stead  ob  she  call- 
in'  ob  me  "  daddy"  and  her  mudder  "  mammy,"  she  say  : 
"  Par  and  mar,  how  can  you  bear  to  live  in  sech  a  one-hoss 
town  as  this?  Oh!  I  think  1  should  die."  And  right 
about  dar  she  hab  all  de  actions  ob  an'  old  drake  in  a  thun- 
der-storm. I  jes'  stared  at  dat  gal  tell  I  make  her  out,  an' 
says  I  to  myself  :  "  It's  got  to  come  ;"  but  I  don't  say 
nothin'  to  nobody  'bout  it — all  de  same  I  knowed  it  had  to 
come  fus'  as  las'.  Well,  I  jes'  let  her  hab  more  rope,  as  de 
sayin'  is,  tell  she  got  whar  I  'eluded  war  'bout  de  end  ob 
her  tedder.  Dat  was  on  last  Sunday  mornin',  when  she 
went  to  meetin'  in  sich  a  rig,  a-puttin'  on  airs,  tell  she 
couldn't  keep  a  straight  track.  When  she  earned  home  she 
brung  kumpny  wid  her,  and,  ob  course,  I  couldn't  do 
nuthin'  then  ;  but  I  jes'  kept  my  ears  open,  .an'  ef  dat  gal 
didn't  disqaollify  me  dat  day,  you  ken  hab  my  hat. 
Bimeby  dey  all  gits  to  talkin'  'bout  'ligion  and  de  churches, 
and  den  one  young  buck  he  step  up,  an1  says  he  :  "  Miss 
Meriky,  give  us  your  'pinion  'bout  de  matter."  Wid  dat 
she  flung  up  her  head  proud  as  de  Queen  Victory,  an'  says 
she  :  "  I  takes  no  intelligence  in  sich  matters  ;  dey  is  all  too 
common  for  me.  Baptisses  is  a  foot  or  two  below  my 
grade.  I  'tends  de  'Pisclopian  Church  whar  I  resides,  an' 
'specs  to  jine  dat  one  de  nex'  anniversary  ob  de  bishop. 
Oh  !  dey  does  eberything  so  lovely,  and  in  so  much  style. 
I  declar'  nobody  but  common  folks  in  de  city  goes  to  de 
Babtiss  Church.  It  made  me  sick  't  my  stomuck  to  see  so 


116  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

much  slioutin'  and  groanin'  dis  mornin'  ;  'tis  so  nngenteel 
wid  us  to  make  so  much  sarcumlocutions  in  meetin\" 
And  thar  she  went  a-giratin'  'bout  de  preacher  a-comin' 
out  in  a  white  shirt,  and  den  a-ruimin'  back  and  gittin'  on 
a  black  one,  and  de  people  a-jumpin'  up  and  a-jawin'  ob  de 
preacher  on  ten  a  book,  and  a -bo  win'  ob  deir  heads,  and 
a-saying  long  rigmaroles  o'  stuff,  tell  my  head  fairly  buzzed, 
and  were  dat  mad  at  de  gal  1  jes'  couldn't  see  nutrm'  in  dat 
room.  Well,  I  jes'  \vaited  tell  the  kumpny  riz  to  go,  and 
den  I  steps  up,  and  says  I  :  "  Young  folks,  you  needn't  let 
what  Meriky  told  you  'bout  dat  church  put  no  change  inter 
you.  She's  sorter  out  ob  her  right  mine  now,  but  de  nex' 
time  you  comes  she'll  be  all  right  on  dat  and  seberal  oder 
subjicks  ;"  and  den  dey  stared  at  Meriky  mighty  hard  and 
goed  away. 

Well,  I  jes'  walks  up  to  her,  and  I  says:  "Darter," 
says  I,  "  what  chu'ch  are  dat  you  say  you  gwine  to  jine  ?" 
And  says  she,  very  prompt  like:  "  De  'Pisclopian,  pa." 
And  says  I  :  "Meriky,  I'se  mighty  consarned  'bout  you, 
kase  I  knows  your  mine  ain't  right,  and  I  shall  jes'  hab  to 
bring  you  roun'  de  shortest  way  possible."  So  I  retch  me  a 
fine  bunch  of  hick'ries  I  done  prepared  for  dat  'casion.  And 
den  she  jumped  up,  and  says  she  :  "  What  make  you  think 
I  loss  my  senses?"  "  Bekase,  darter,  you  done  forgot  how 
to  walk  and  to  talk,  and  dem  is  sure  signs."  And  wid  dat 
I  jes'  let  in  on  her  tell  I  'stonished  her  'siderably.  'Fore  I 
were  done  wid  her  she  got  ober  dem  dying  a'rs,  and  jumped 
as  high  as  a  hopper-grass.  Bimeby  she  'gins  to  holler  : 
"  Oh,  Lordy,  daddy  !  daddy  !  don't  give  me  no  more." 

And  says  I  :  "  You're  improving  dat's  a  fac'  ;  done  got 
your  natural  voice  back.  What  chu'ch  does  you  'long  to, 


GINGER-SNAPS.  117 

Meriky?"  And  says  she,  a-cryin'  :  "1  don't  'long  to 
none,  par." 

"Well,  I  gib  her  anodder  leetle  tetch,  and  says  I  :  "  "What 
chu'ch  does  you  'long  to,  darter?"  And  says  she,  all 
choked  like  :  "  I  doesn't  'long  to  none." 

Den  I  jes'  make  dem  hick'ries  ring  for  'bout  five  min- 
utes, and  den  I  say  :  "  What  chu'ch  you  'longs  to  NOW, 
Meriky  ?"  And  says  she,  fairly  shoutin'  :  "  Baptiss  ;  I'se 
a  deep-water  Baptiss."  "Berry  good,"  says  I.  "You 
don't  'spect  to  hab  your  name  tuck  often  dem  chu'ch 
books?"  And  says  she:  "No,  sar  ;  I  allus  did  despise 
dem  stuck-up  'Pisclopians ;  dey  ain't  got  no  'ligion 
nohow. " 

Brover  Simon,  you  never  see  a  gal  so  holpen  by  a  good 
genteel  thrashin'  in  all  your  days.  1  boun'  she  won't  neber 
stick  her  nose  in  dem  new-fandangle  chu'ches  no  more. 
Why,  she  jes'  walks  as  straight  dis  morning,  and  looks  as 
peart  as  a  sunflower.  I'll  lay  a  tenpence  she'll  be  a-singin' 
before  night  dat  good  ole  hyme  she  usened  to  be  so  fond 
ob.  You  knows,  Brover  Simon,  how  de  words  run  : 

"  Baptis,  Baptis  is  my  name, 

My  name  is  written  on  high  ; 
'Spects  to  lib  and  die  de  same, 
My  name  is  written  on  high." 

Brother  Simon.  Yes,  dat  she  will,  I  be  boun'  ;  ef  I  does 
say  it,  Brover  Horace,  you  beats  any  man  on  church  guber- 
ment  an'  family  displanement  ob  anybody  I  ever  has  seen. 

Brother  Horace.  Well,  Brover,  I  does  my  bes'.  Yon 
mus'  pray  for  me,  so  dat  my  han's  may  be  strengthened. 
Dey  feels  mighty  weak  after  dat  conversion  I  give  dat 
Meriky  las'  night. — Scribner's  Monthly,  Bric-a-Brac,  1876. 


118  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

If  it  is  unadulterated  consolation  that  you  need,  try 
AUNTY  DOLEFUL' S  VISIT. 

BY   MARY    KYLE    DALLAS. 

How  do  you  do,  Cornelia  ?  I  heard  you  were  sick,  and 
1  stepped  in  to  cheer  you  up  a  little.  My  friends  often 
say  :  "  It's  such  a  comfort  to  see  you,  Aunty  Doleful. 
Yon  have  such  a  flow  of  conversation,  and  are  so  lively." 
Besides,  1  said  to  myself,  as  I  came  up  the  stairs  :  "  Per- 
haps it's  the  last  time  I'll  ever  see  Cornelia  Jane  alive." 

You  don't  mean  to  die  yet,  eh  ?  Well,  now,  how  do  you 
know  ?  You  can't  tell.  You  think  you  are  getting  better, 
but  there  was  poor  Mrs.  Jones  sitting  up,  and  every  one 
saying  how  smart  she  was,  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  was 
taken  with  spasms  in  the  heart,  and  went  off  like  a  flash. 
Parthenia  is  young  to  bring  the  baby  up  by  hand.  But  you 
must  be  careful,  and  not  get  anxious  or  excited.  Keep 
quite  calm,  and  don't  fret  about  anything.  Of  course, 
things  can't  go  on  jest  as  if  you  were  down-stairs  ;  and  I 
wondered  whether  you  knew  your  little  Billy  was  sailing 
about  in  a  tub  on  the  mill-pond,  and  that  your  little  Sammy 
was  letting  your  little  Jimmy  down  from  the  veranda-roof 
in  a  clothes-basket. 

Gracious  goodness,  what's  the  matter?  I  guess  Provi- 
•dence'll  take  care  of  'em.  Don't  look  so.  You  thought 
Bridget  was  watching  them  ?  "Well,  no,  she  isn't.  1  saw 
lier  talking  to  a  man  at  the  gate.  He  looked  to  me  like  a 
burglar.  No  doubt  she'll  let  him  take  the  impression  of 
the  door-key  in  wax,  and  then  he'll  get  in  and  murder  you 
all.  There  was  a  family  at  Kobble  Hill  all  killed  last  week 


GINGER-SNAPS.  119 

for  fifty  dollars.     Now,  don't  fidget  so  ;  it  will  be  bad  for 
the  baby. 

Poor,-  little  dear  !  How  singular  it  is,  to  be  sure,  that 
you  can't  tell  whether  a  child  is  blind,  or  deaf  and  dumb, 
or  a  cripple  at  that  age.  It  might  be  all,  and  you'd  never 
know  it. 

Most  of  them  that  have  their  senses  make  bad  use  of 
them  though  ;  that  ought  to  be  your  comfort,  if  it  does 
turn  out  to  have  anything  dreadful  the  matter  with  it. 
And  more  don't  live  a  year.  I  saw  a  baby's  funeral  down 
the  street  as  I  came  along. 

How  is  Mr.  Kobble  ?  Well,  but  finds  it  warm  in  town, 
eh  ?  Well,  1  should  think  he  would.  They  are  dropping 
down  by  hundreds  there  with  sun-stroke.  You  must  pre- 
pare your  mind  to  have  him  brought  home  any  day.  Any- 
how, a  trip  on  these  railroad  trains  is  just  risking  your  life 
every  time  you  take  one.  Back  and  forth  every  day  as  he 
is,  it's  just  trifling  with  danger. 

Dear  !  dear  !  now  to  think  what  dreadful  things  hang 
over  us  all  the  time  !  Dear  !  dear  ! 

Scarlet  fever  has  broken  out  in  the  village,  Cornelia. 
Little  Isaac  Potter  has  it,  and  I  saw  your  Jimmy  playing 
with  him  last  Saturday. 

Well,  I  must  be  going  now.  I've  got  another  sick 
friend,  and  I  sha'n't  think  my  duty  done  unless  I  cheer  her 
up  a  little  before  I  sleep.  Good-by.  How  pale  you  look, 
Cornelia  !  I  don't  believe  you  have  a  good  doctor.  Do 
send  him.  away  and  try  some  one  else.  You  don't  look  so 
well  as  you  did  when  I  came  in.  But  if  anything  happens, 
send  for  me  at  once.  If  I  can't  do  anything  else,  I  can 
cheer  you  up  a  little. 


120  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Dallas,  who  lives  in  New  York  City,  is  a  regular 
correspondent  of  the  New  York  Ledger,  having  taken  Fanny 
Fern's  place  on  that  widely  circulated  paper,  is  a  prom- 
inent member  of  "  Sorosis, "  and  her  Tuesday  evening  re- 
ceptions draw  about  her  some  of  the  brightest  society  of 
that  cosmopolitan  centre. 

All  these  selections  are  prizes  for  the  long-suffering  elo- 
cutionist who  is  expected  to  entertain  his  friends  with  some- 
thing new,  laughter-provoking,  and  fully  up  to  the  mark. 

Mrs.  Ames,  of  Brooklyn,  known  to  the  public  as  "  Eleanor 
Kirk,"  has  revealed  In  her  "  Thanksgiving  Growl  "  a  bit 
of  honest  experience,  refreshing  with  its  plain  Saxon  and 
homely  realism,  which,  when  recited  with  proper  spirit,  is 
most  effective. 

A  THANKSGIVING   GKOWL. 

Oh,  dear  !  do  put  some  more  chips  on  the  fire, 

And  hurry  up  that  oven  !     Just  my  luck — 
To  have  the  bread  slack.     Bet  that  plate  up  higher  ! 

And  for  goodness'  sake  do  clear  this  truck 
Away  !     Frogs'  legs  and  marbles  on  my  moulding-board  ! 

What  next  I  wonder  ?     John  Henry,  wash  your  face  ; 
And  do  get  out  from  under  foot,  ' '  Afford  more 

Cream  ?"     Ussd  all  you  had  ?     If  that's  the  case, 
Skim  all  the  pans.     Do  step  a  little  spryer  ! 

I  wish  I  hadn't  asked  so  many  folks 
To  spend  Thanksgiving.     Good  gracious  !  poke  the  fire 

And  put  some  water  on.     Lord,  how  it  smokes  ! 
I  never  was  so  tired  in  all  my  life  ! 

And  there's  the  cake  to  frost,  and  dough  to  mix 
For  tarts.     I  can't  cut  pumpkin  with  this  knife  ! 

Some  women's  husbands  know  enough  to  fix 
The  kitchen  tools  ;  but,  for  all  mine  would  care, 

I  might  tear  pumpkin  with  my  teeth.     John  Henry, 


GINGER-SNAPS.  121 

If  you  don't  plant  yourself  on  that  '  ere  chair, 

I'll  set  you  down  so  hard  that  you'll  agree 
You're  stuck  for  good.     Them  cranberries  are  sour, 
And  taste  like  gall  beside.  Hand  me  some  flour, 
And  do  fly  round.     John  Henry,  wipe  your  nose  ! 

I  wonder  how  'twill  be  when  I  am  dead? 
' '  How  my  nose  '11  be  ?' '     Yes,  how  your  nose  'II  be, 

And  how  your  back  '11  be.     If  that  ain't  red 
I'll  miss  my  guess.     I  don't  expect  you'll  see — 

You  nor  your  father  neither —what  I've  done 
And  suffered  in  this  house.     As  true's  I  live 

Them  pesky  fowl  ain't  stuffed  !     The  biggest  one 
Will  hold  two  loaves  of  bread.     Say,  wipe  that  sieve, 

And  hand  it  here.     You  are  the  slowest  poke 
In  all  Fairinount.     Lor'  !  there's  Deacon  Gubben's  wife  ! 

She'll  be  here  to-morrow.     That  pan  can  soak 
A  little  while.     I  never  in  my  life 

Saw  such  a  lazy  critter  as  she  is. 
If  she  stayed  home,  there  wouldn't  be  a  thing 

To  eat.     You  bet  she'll  fill  up  here  !     ' '  It's  riz  ?" 
Well,  so  it  has.     John  Henry  !     Good  king  ! 

How  did  that  boy  get  out  ?    You  saw  him  go 
With  both  fists  full  of  raisins  and  a  pile 

Behind  him,  and  you  never  let  me  know  ! 
There  !  you've  talked  so  much  I  clean  forgot  the  rye. 

I  wonder  if  the  Governor  had  to  slave 
As  I  do,  if  he  would  be  so  pesky  fresh  about 

Thanksgiving  Day  ?     He'd  been  in  his  grave 
With  half  my  work.     What,  get  along  without 

An  Indian  pudding?     Well,  that  would  be 
A  novelty.     No  friend  or  foe  shall  say 

I'm  close,  or  haven't  as  much  variety 
As  other  folks.     There  !  I  think  I  see  my  way 

Quite  clear.     The  onions  are  to  peel.     Let's  see  : 
Turnips,  potatoes,  apples  there  to  stew, 

This  squash  to  bake,  and  lick  John  Henry  ! 
And  after  that— I  really  think  I'm  through. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PROSE,    BUT   NOT   PROSY. 

MRS.  ALICE  WELLINGTON  ROLLINS,  in  those  interesting  arti- 
cles in  the  Critic  which  induced  me  to  look  further,  says  : 

"  We  claim  high  rank  for  the  humor  of  women  because 
it  is  almost  exclusively  of  this  higher,  imaginative  type.  A 
woman  rarely  tells  an  anecdote,  or  hoards  up  a  good  story, 
or  comes  in  and  describes  to  you  something  funny  that  she 
has  seen.  Her  humor  is  like  a  flash  of  lightning  from  a 
clear  sky,  coming  when  you  least  expect  it,  when  it  could 
not  have  been  premeditated,  and  when,  to  the  average  con- 
sciousness, there  is  not  the  slightest  provocation  to  humor, 
possessing  thus  in  the  very  highest  degree  that  element  of 
surprise  which  is  not  only  a  factor  in  all  humor,  but  to  our 
mind  the  most  important  factor.  You  tell  her  that  you 
cannot  spend  the  winter  with  her  because  you  have  prom- 
ised to  spend  it  with  some  one  else,  and  she  exclaims  : 
'  Oh,  Ellen  !  why  were  you  not  born  twins  !  '  She  has, 
perhaps,  recently  built  for  herself  a  most  charming  home, 
and  coming  to  see  yours,  which  happens  to  be  just  a  trifle 
more  luxurious  and  charming,  she  remarks  as  she  turns 
away  :  '  All  I  can  say  is,  when  you  want  to  see  squalor*, 
come  and  visit  me  in  Oxford  Street  ! '  She  puts  down  her 
heavy  coffee-cup  of  stone- china  with  its  untasted  coffee  at 
a  little  country  inn,  saying,  with  a  sigh  :  'It's  no  use  ;  I 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  123 

can't  get  at  it  ;  it's  like  trying  to  drink  over  a  stone  wall.' 
She  writes  in  a  letter  :  '  We  parted  this  morning  with 
mutual  satisfaction  ;  that  is,  I  suppose  we  did  ;  I  know  my 
satisfaction  was  mutual  enough  for  two.'  She  asks  her 
little  restless  daughter  in  the  most  insinuating  tones  if  she 
would  not  like  to  '  sit  in  papa's  lap  and  have  him  tell  her 
a  story  ; '  and  when  the  little  daughter  responds  with  a 
most  uncompromising  '  no  !  '  turns  her  inducement  into  a 
threat,  and  remarks  with  severity  :  i  Well,  be  a  good  girl, 
or  you  will  have  to  !  '  She  complains,  when  you  have  kept 
her  waiting  while  you  were  buying  undersleeves,  that  you 
must  have  bought.'  undersleeves  enough  for  a  centipede.' 

You  ask  how  poor  Mr.  X is — the  disconsolate  widower 

who  a  fortnight  ago  was  completely  prostrated  by  his  wife's 
death,  and  are  told  in  calm  and  even  tones  that  he  is  '  be- 
ginning to  take  notice.'  You  tell  her  that  one  of  the  best 
fellows  in  the  class  has  been  unjustly  expelled,  and  that  the 
class  are  to  wear  crape  on  their  left  arms  for  thirty  days, 
and  that  you  only  hope  that  the  President  will  meet  you  in 
the  college-yard  and  ask  why  you  wear  it  ;  to  all  of  which 
she  replies  soothingly,  *  I  wouldn't  do  that,  Henry  ;  for  the 
President  might  tell  you  not  to  mourn,  as  your  friend  was 
not  lost,  only  gone  before.'  You  tell  her  of  your  stunned 
sensation  on  finding  some  of  your  literary  work  compli- 
mented in  the  Nation,  and  she  exclaims  :  '  I  should  think 
so  !  It  must  be  like  meeting  an  Indian  and  seeing  him  put 
his  hand  into  his  no-pocket  to  draw  out  a  scented  pocket- 
handkerchief,  instead  of  a  tomahawk.'  Or  she  writes  that 
two  Sunday-schools  are  trying  to  do  all  the  good  they  can, 
but  that  each  is  determined  at  any  cost  to  do  more  good 
than  the  other." 


124  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

I  have  selected  several  specimens  of  this  higher  type  of 
humor. 

Mrs.  Ellen  H.  Rollins  was  pre-eminently  gifted  in  this 
direction.  The  humor  in  her  exquisite  "New  England 
Bygones"  is  so  interwoven  with  the  simple  pathos  of  her 
memories  that  it  cannot  be  detached  without  detriment  to 
both.  But  I  will  venture  to  select  three  sketches  from 

OLD-TIME    CHILD    LIFE. 

BY    E.    H.    ARR. 

Betsy  had  the  reddest  hair  of  any  girl  I  ever  knew.  It 
was  quite  short  in  front,  and  she  had  a  way  of  twisting  it, 
on  either  temple,  into  t\vo  little  buttons,  which  she  fastened 
with  pins.  The  rest  of  it  she  brought  quite  far  up  on  the 
top  of  her  head,  where  she  kept  it  in  place  with  a  large- 
sized  horn  comb.  Her  face  was  covered  with  freckles,  and 
her  eyes,  in  winter,  were  apt  to  be  inflamed.  She  always 
seemed  to.  have  a  mop  in  her  hand,  and  she  had  no  respect 
for  paint.  She  was  as  neat  as  old  Dame  Safford  herself, 
and  was  continually  "straightening  things  out,"  as  she 
called  it.  Her  temper,  like  her  hair,  was  somewhat  fiery  ; 
and  when  her  work  did  not  suit  her,  she  was  prone  to  a 
gloomy  view  of  life.  If  she  was  to  be  believed,  things 
were  always  "  going  to  wrack  and  ruin"  about  the  house  ; 
and  she  had  a  queer  way  of  taking  time  by  the  forelock. 
In  the  morning  it  was  "  going  on  to  twelve  o'clock,"  and 
at  noon  it  was  "  going  on  to  midnight." 

She  kept  her  six  kitchen  chairs  in  a  row  on  one  side  of 
the  room,  and  as  many  flatirons  in  a  line  on  the  mantel- 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  125 

piece.  Everything  where  she  was  had,  she  said,  to  "  stand 
just  so  ;"  and  woe  to  the  child  who  carried  crookedness  into 
her  straight  lines  !  Betsy  had  a  manner  of  her  own,  and 
made  a  wonderful  kind  of  a  courtesy,  with  which  her  skirts 
puffed  out  all  around  like  a  cheese.  She  always  courtesied 
to  Parson  Meeker  when  she  met  him,  and  said  :  "  I  hope 
to  see  you  well,  sir."  Once  she  courtesied  in  a  prayer- 
meeting  to  a  man  who  offered  her  a  chair,  and  told  him,  in 
a  shrill  voice,  to  "  keep  his  setting,"  though  she  was  "ever 
so  much  obleeged  "  to  him.  This  was  when  she  was  under 
conviction,  and  Parson  Meeker  said  he  thought  she  had  met 
with  a  change  of  heart.  Father  Lathem's  wife  hoped  so 
too,  for  then  "  there  would  be  a  chance  of  having  some 
Long-noses  and  Pudding-sweets  left  over  in  the  orchard." 

It  was  in  time  of  the  long  drought,  when  fire  ran  over 
Grayface,  and  a  great  comet  appeared  in  the  sky.  Some  of 
the  people  of  Whiten" eld  thought  the  world  was  coming  to 
an  end.  The  comet  stayed  for  weeks,  visible  even  at  noon- 
day, stretching  its  tail  from  the  zenith  far  toward  the  west- 
ern horizon,  and  at  night  staring  in  at  windows  with  its  eye 
of  fire.  It  was  the  talk  of  the  people,  who  pondered  over 
it  with  a  helpless  wonder.  I  recall  two  Whitefield  women 
as  they  stood,  one  morning,  bare-armed  in  a  doorway,  star- 
ing at  and  chattering  about  it.  One  says  they  "  might  as 
well  stop  work"  and  "  take  it  easy"  while  they  can.  The 
other  thinks  the  better  way  is  to  "  keep  on  a  stiddy  jog 
until  it  comes."  They  wish  they  knew  "how  near  it  is," 
and  "  what  the  tail  means  anyway." 

Betsy  comes  along  with  a  pail,  which  she  sets  down,  and 
then  looks  up  to  the  comet.  The  air  is  dense  with  smoke 
from  Grayface,  and  the  dry  earth  is  full  of  cracks.  Betsy 


126  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

declares  that  it  is  "  going  on  two  months  since  there  has 
heen  any  rain."  Everything  is  "going  to  wiack  and 
ruin,"  and  "  if  that  thing  up  there  should  burst,  there'll  be 
an  end  to  Whitefield." 

Then  she  catches  sight  of  me  listening  wide-mouthed, 
and  she  tells  me  that  I  needn't  suppose  she  is  "  going  home 
to  iron  my  pink  muslin,"  for  she  thinks  the  tail  of  the 
comet  "  has  started,  and  is  coming  right  down  to  whisk  it 
off  from  the  line."  I  believe  her,  and  distinctly  remember 
the  terror  that  took  hold  of  me  as  I  rushed  home  and  tore 
the  pink  muslin  from  the  line,  lest  it  should  be  whisked  off 
by  the  comet's  tail. 

When  the  drought  broke,  a  single  day's  rain  washed  all 
the  smoke  from  the  air.  Directly,  the  tail  of  the  comet 
began  to  fade,  and  all  of  a  sudden  its  fiery  eye  went  out 
of  the  sky. 

Some  of  the  villagers  thought  it  had  "  burst,"  others  that 
it  had  "  burned  out."  Betsy  said  :  "  Whatever  it  was,  it 
was  a  humbug  ;"  and  the  wisest  man  in  WThiteh'eld  could 
neither  tell  whence  it  came  nor  whither  it  went.  One 
thing,  however,  was  certain  :  Farmer  Lathem  said  that 
never,  since  his  orchard  began  to  bear,  had  he  gathered 
such  a  crop  of  apples  as  he  did,  despite  the  drought,  in  the 
year  of  the  great  comet. 

MRS.    MEEKER. 

BY   E.    H.    ARK. 

When  I  read  of  Roman  matrons  I  always  think  of  Mrs. 
Meeker.  Her  features  were  marked,  and  her  eyes  of  deep- 
est blue.  She  wore  her  hair  combed  closely  down  over  her 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  127 

ears,  so  that  her  forehead  seemed  to  run  up  in  a  point  high 
upon  her  head.  Its  color  was  of  reddish-brown,  and,  I  a;n 
sorry  to  say,  so  far  as  it  was  seen,  it  was  not  her  own.  It 
was  called  a  scratch,  and  Betsy  said  Mrs.  Meeker  "  would 
look  enough  sight  better  if  she  would  leave  it  off. "  Whether 
any  hair  at  all  grew  upon  Mrs.  Meeker's  head  was  a  great 
problem  with  the  village  children,  and  nothing  could  better 
illustrate  the  dignity  of  this  woman  than  the  fact  that  for 
more  than  thirty  years  the  whole  neighborhood  tried  in 
vain  to  find  out. 

PARSON  MEEKER. 

BY    E.    H.    ARR. 

Every  Sunday  he  preached  two  long  sermons,  each  with 
five  heads,  and  each  head  itself  divided.  After  the  fifthly 
came  an  application,  with  an  exhortation  at  its  close.  The 
sermons  were  called  very  able,  or,  more  often,  "  strong  dis- 
courses." I  used  to  think  this  was  because  Mrs.  Meeker 
had  stitched  their  leaves  fast  together.  Betsy  said  they 
were  just  like  Deacon  Saunders's  breaking-up  plough, 
"  and  went  tearing  right  through  sin."  The  parson,  when 
I  knew  him,  was  a  little  slow  of  speech  and  dull  of  sight. 
He  sometimes  lost  his  place  on  his  page.  How  afraid  I 
used  to  be  Itst,  not  finding  it,  he  should  repeat  his  heads  ! 
He  always  brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  however,  and 
sailed  safely  through  to  the  application. 

"When  that  came,  Benny  almost  always  gave  me  a  jog  with 
his  elbow  or  foot.  Once  he  stuck  a  pin  into  my  arm, 
which  made  me  jump  so  that  Deacon  Saunders,  who  sat 
behind,  waked  up  with  a  loud  snort.  The  deacon  was 


128  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN.  . 

always  talking  about  the  sermons  being  "  powerful  in  doc- 
trine." When  Benny  asked  Betsy  what  doctrines  were, 
she  told  him  to  "  let  doctrines  alone  ;"  that  they  were 
"  pizen  things,  only  tit  for  hardened  old  sinners." 

There  are  many  delightful  articles  which  must  be  merely 
alluded  to  in  passing,  as  the  "  Old  Salem  Shops,"  by 
Eleanor  Putnam,  so  delicate  and  delicious  that,  once  read, 
it  will  ever  be  a  fragrant  memory  ;  Louise  Stockton's 
"  Woman  in  the  Restaurant"  I  want  to  give  you,  and  Mrs. 
Barrow's  "  Pennikitty  People  ;"  a  chapter  from  Miss  Bay- 
lor's "  On  This  Side,"  and  the  opening  chapters  of  Miss 
Phelps's  "  Old  Maids'  Paradise  ;"  also  the  description  of 
"  Joppa,"  by  Grace  Denio  Litchfield,  in  "  Only  an  Inci- 
dent." There  are  others  from  which  it  is  not  possible  to 
make  extracts.  Miss  Woolson's  admirable  "  For  the  Ma- 
jor," though  pathetic,  almost  tragic,  in  its  underlying  feel- 
ing, is,  at  the  same  time,  a  story  of  exquisite  humor,  from 
which,  nevertheless,  not  a  single  sentence  could  be  quoted 
that  would  be  called  "funny."  Her  work,  and  that  of 
Fiances  Hodgson  Burnett,  as  well  as  that  of  Miss  Phelps 
and  Mrs.  Spofford,  shine  with  a  silver  thread  of  humor, 
worked  too  intimately  into  the  whole  warp  and  woof  to  be 
extracted  without  injuring  both  the  solid  material  and  the 
tinsel.  To  appreciate  the  point  and  delicacy  of  their  finest 
wit,  you  must  read  the  whole  story  and  grasp  the  entire 
character  or  situation. 

Mrs.  E.  W.  Bellamy,  a  Southern  lady,  published  in  last 
year's  Atlantic  Monthly  a  sketch  called  "  At  Bent's 
Hotel,"  which  ought  to  have  a  place  in  this  volume  ;  but 
my  publisher  says  authoritatively  that  there  must  be  a  limit 


PEO8E,  BUT  NOT  PRO8T.  129 

somewhere  ;  so  this  gem  must  be  included  in — a  second 
series  ! 

There  is  so  much  truth  as  well  as  humor  in  the  following 
article,  that  it  must  be  included.  It  gives  in  prose  the 
agonies  which  Saxe  told  so  feelingly  in  verse  : 

A  FATAL  REPUTATION. 

BY      ISABEL      PRANCES      BELLOWS. 

I  am  impelled  to  write  this  as  an  awful  warning  to  young 
men  and  svomen  who  are  just  entering  upon  life  and  its 
responsibilities.  Years  ago  I  thoughtlessly  took  a  false 
step,  which  at  the  time  seemed  trivial  and  of  little  import, 
but  which  has  since  assumed  colossal  proportions  that 
threaten  to  overshadow  much  of  the  innocent  happiness  of 
my  otherwise  placid  existence.  What  wonder,  then,  that  I 
try  to  avert  this  danger  from  young  and  inexperienced 
minds  who  in  their  gay  thoughtlessness  rush  into  the  very 
jaws  of  the  disaster,  and  before  they  are  well  aware  find 
they  are  entrapped  for  life,  as  there  is  no  escape  for  those 
who  have  thus  brought  their  doom  upon  themselves. 

I  will  try  and  relate  how,  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  when 
I  first  began  to  gaze  upon  the  world  of  realities  "the 
curse"  came  upon  me.  It  was  in  this  wise  : 

I  lived  in  my  youth  an  almost  cloistral  life  of  seclusion 
and  self-absorption,  from  which  I  was  suddenly  shaken  by 
circumstances,  and  forced  to  mingle  in  the  busy  world  ;  to 
which,  after  the  first  shock,  I  was  not  at  all  averse,  but 
found  very  interesting,  and  also — and  there  was  the  weight 
that  pulled  me  down — tolerably  amusing.  For  I  met  some 


130  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

curious  people,  and  saw  and  heard  some  remarkable  things  ; 
and  as  I  went  among  my  friends  I  often  used  to  give  an 
account  of  my  observations,  until  at  last  I  discovered  that 
wherever  I  went,  and  under  whatever  circumstances  (ex- 
cept, of  course,  at  the  funeral  of  a  member  of  the  family), 
I  was  expected  to  be  amusing  !  I  found  myself  in  the  same 
relation  to  society  that  the  clown  bears  to  the  circus-master 
who  has  engaged  him — he  must  either  be  funny  or  leave 
the  troupe. 

Now,  I  am  unfortunate  in  having  no  particular  accom- 
plishments. I  cannot  sing  either  the  old  songs  or  the  new  ; 
neither  am  I  a  performer  on  divers  instruments.  I  can 
paint  a  little,  but  my  paintings  do  not  seem  to  rouse  any 
enthusiasm  in  the  beholder,  nor  do  they  add  an  inspiring 
strain  to  conversation.  I  can,  indeed,  make  gingerbread 
and  six  different  kinds  of  pudding,  but  I  hesitate  to  men- 
tion it,  because  the  cook  is  far  in  advance  of  me  in  all  these 
particulars,  not  to  mention  numerous  other  ways  in  which 
she  excels.  I  have  thus  but  one  resource  in  life  ;  and  when 
I  give  one  or  two  instances  of  the  humiliation  and  distress 
of  mind  to  which  I  have  been  subjected  on  its  account  I  am 
sure  I  shall  win  a  sympathizing  thought  even  from  those 
who  are  more  favored  by  nature,  and  possibly  save  a  few 
young  spirits  from  the  pain  of  treading  in  my  footsteps. 

In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  naturally  witty.  Epigrams 
do  not  rise  spontaneously  to  my  lips,  and  it  sometimes  takes 
days  and  even  weeks  of  consideration  after  an  opportunity 
of  making  one  has  occurred  before  the  appropriate  words 
finally  dawn  upon  me.  By  that  time,  of  course,  the  retort 
is*  what  the  Catholics  call  "  a  work  of  supererogation."  I 
perhaps  possess  a  slight  "sense  of  the  humorous,"  which 


PKOSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  131 

has  undoubtedly  given  rise  to  the  fatal  demand  upon  me, 
but  I  do  not  remember  ever  having  been  very  fanny. 
There  never  was  any  danger  of  my  experiencing  difficulties 
like  Dr.  Holmes  on  that  famous  occasion  when  he  was  as 
funny  as  he  could  be.  I  have  often  been  as  funny  as  I 
could  be,  but  the  smallest  of  buttons  on'  the  slenderest  of 
threads  never  detached  itself  on  my  account.  I  have  never 
had  to  restrain  my  humorous  remarks  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree, but  on  the  contrary  have  sometimes  been  driven  into 
making  the  most  atrocious  jokes,  and  even  puns,  because  it 
was  evident  something  of  the  sort  was  expected  from  me 
— only,  of  course,  something  better. 

One  occurrence  of  this  kind  will  remain  forever  fixed  in 
my  memory.  I  was  invited  to  a  picnic,  that  most  ghastly 
device  of  the  human  mind  for  playing  at  having  a  good 
time.  At  first  I  had  declined  to  go,  but  it  was  represented 
to  me  that  no  less  than  three  families  had  company  for 
whose  entertainment  something  must  be  done  ;  that  two 
young  and  interesting  friends  of  mine  just  about  to  be  en- 
gaged to  each  other  would  be  simply  inconsolable  if  the 
plan  were  given  up  ;  and,  in  short,  that  1  should  show  by 
not  going  an  extremely  hateful  and  unseemly  spirit — "  be- 
sides, it  wouldn't  do  to  have  it  without  you,  my  dear,"  con- 
tinued my  amiable  friend,  "  because  you  know  you  are  al- 
ways the  lite  of  the  party."  So  I  sighed  and  consented. 

The  day  arrived,  and  before  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning 
the  mercury  stood  at  ninety  degrees  in  the  shade.  The 
cook  overslept  herself,  and  breakfast  was  so  late  that  Wil- 
liam Henry  missed  the  train  into  the  city,  which  didn't  make 
it  pleasanter  for  any  of  us.  I  had  made  an  especially  deli- 
cate cake  to  take  with  me  as  my  share  of  the  feast,  and 


132  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

while  we  were  at  breakfast  I  heard  a  crash  in  the  direction 
of  the  kitchen,  and  hastening  tremblingly  to  discover  the 
origin  of  it  I  found  the  cake  and  the  plate  containing  it  in 
one  indistinguishable  heap  on  the  floor. 

"  It  slipped  between  me  two  hands  as  if  it  was  alive,  bad 
luck  to  it,"  said  the  cook  ;  "  and  It  was  meself  that  saw 
the  heavy  crack  in  the  plate  before  you  set  the  cake  onto  it, 
mum  !" 

I  took  cookies  and  boiled  eggs  to  the  picnic. 

The  wreck  had  hardly  been  cleared  away  before  my  son 
and  heir  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  a  hole  of  un imag- 
ined dimensions  in  his  third  worst  trousers.  His  second 
worst  were  already  in  the  mending  basket,  so  nothing  re- 
mained for  me  but  to  clothe  him  in  his  best  suit  and  wonder 
all  day  in  which  part  of  them  I  should  find  the  largest  hole 
when  I  came  home. 

Lastly,  I  had  just  put  on  my  hat,  and  was  preparing  to 
set  forth,  warm,  tired  and  demoralized,  when  my  youngest, 
in  her  anxiety  to  bid  me  a  sufficiently  affectionate  farewell, 
lost  her  small  balance,  and  came  rolling  down-stairs  after 
me.  No  serious  harm  was  done,  but  it  took  nearly  an  hour 
before  I  succeeded  in  soothing  and  comforting  her  suffi- 
ciently to  be  able  to  leave  her,  with  two  brown-paper 
patches  on  her  head  and  elbow,  in  the  care  of  the  nurse. 

When  I  arrived  late,  discouraged  and  with  a  headache,  at 
the  picnic  grounds,  I  found  the  assembled  company  sitting 
"vapidly  about  among  mosquitoes  and  beetles,  already  look- 
ing bored  to  death,  and  I  soon  perceived  that  it  was  ex- 
pected of  me  to  provide  amusement  and  entertainment  for 
the  crowd.  I  tried  to  rally,  therefore,  and  proposed  a  few 
games,  which  went  off  in  a  spiritless  manner  enough,  and 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  133 

apparently  in  consequence  I  began  to  be  assailed  with  ques- 
tions and  remarks  of  a  reproachful  character. 

i£  Don't  you  feel  well  to-day  i"1  "  Has  anything  hap- 
pened ?"  "  You  don't  seem  as  lively  as  usual  !"  No  one 
took  the  slightest  notice  of  my  explanations,  until  at  last, 
goaded  into  desperation  by  one  evil-minded  old  woman, 
who  asked  me  if  it  were  true  that  my  husband  was  involved 
in  the  failure  of  Smith,  Jones  &  Co.,  I  launched  out  and 
became  wildly  and  disgracefully  silly.  Xothing  seemed  too 
foolish,  too  senseless  to  say  if  it  only  answered  the  great 
purpose  of  keeping  off  the  attack  of  personal  questions. 

Thus  the  wretched  day  wore  on,  until  at  last  it  was  time 
to  go  home,  and  the  first  feeling  approaching  content  was 
stealing  into  my  weary  bosom  as  I  gathered  up  my  basket 
and  shawls,  when  it  was  rudely  dashed  by  the  following 
conversation,  conducted  by  two  ladies 'to  whom  I  had  been 
introduced  that  day.  They  were  standing  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  rest  of  the  company  and  from  me,  and  evi- 
dently thought  ihemselves  far  enough  away  to  talk  quite 
loud,  so  that  these  words  were  plainly  borne  to  my  ears  : 

u  I  hate  to  see  people  try  to  make  themselves  so  conspic- 
uous, don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  to  try  to  be  funny  when  they 
haven't  any  fun  in  them." 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  Maria  was  thinking  about  to  call 
her  witty  !" 

' '  I  know  it.  I  should  think  such  people  had  better  keep 
quiet  when  they  haven't  anything  to  say.  I'm  glad  it's 
time  to  go  home.  Picnics  are  such  stupid  things  !' ' 

What  more  was  said  I  do  riot  know,  for  I  left  the  spot  as 
quickly  as  possible,  making  an  inward  resolution  to  avoid 


13-i  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

all  picnics  in  the  future  till  I  should  arrive  at  my  second 
childhood. 

1  cannot  refrain  from  giving  one  other  little  instance  of 
my  sufferings  from  this  cause.  I  was  again  invited  out  ; 
this  time  to  a  lunch  party,  specially  to  meet  the  friend  of  a 
friend  of  mine.  The  very  morning  of  the  day  it  was  to 
take  place  1  received  a  telegram  stating  that  rny  great-aunt 
had  died  suddenly  in  California.  Xow  people  don't  usually 
care  much  about  their  great-aunts.  They  can  bear  to  be 
chastened  in  this  direction  very  comfortably  ;  but  I  did 
care  about  mine.  She  had  been  very  kind  to  me,  and 
though  the  width  of  a  continent  had  separated  us  for  the 
last  ten  years  her  memory  was  still  dear  to  me. 

I  sat  down  immediately  to  write  a  note  excusing  myself 
from  my  friend's  lunch  party,  when,  just  as  I  took  the 
paper,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  rather  a  selfish  thing  to 
do.  My  friend's  guests  were  invited,  and  her  arrangements 
all  made  ;  and  as  the  visit  of  her  friend  was  to  be  very 
short  the  opportunity  of  our  meeting  would  probably  be 
lost.  So  I  wrote  instead  a  note  to  the  daughter  of  my 
great  aunt,  and  when  the  time  came  I  went  to  the  lunch 
party  with  a  heavy  heart.  I  had  no  opportunity  of  telling 
my  friend  of  the  sad  news  1  had*  received  that  morning, 
and  I  suppose  I  may  have  been  quiet  ;  perhaps  I  even 
seemed  indifferent,  though  I  tried  not  to  be.  I  could  not 
have  been  very  successful,  however,  for  I  was  just  going 
up-stairs  to  put  on  my  "  things"  to  go  home,  when  I  heard 
this  little  conversation  in  the  dressing-room  : 

"  It's  too  bad  she  wasn't  more  interesting  to-day,  but 
you  never  can  tell  how  it  \vill  be.  She  will  do  as  she  likes, 
and  that's  the  end  of  it." 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  135 

"  Yes,"  said  another  voice,  "  1  think  she  is  rather  a 
moody  person  anyway  ;  she  won't  say  a  word  if  she  doesn't 
feel  like  it." 

"  'Sh-'sh — here  she  comes,"  said  another,  with  the  tone 
and  look  that  told  me  it  was  I  of  whom  they  were  talking. 

And  so  1  adjure  all  youthful  and  hopeful  persons,  who 
have  a  tendency  to  be  funny,  to  keep  it  a  profound  secret 
from  the  world.  Indulge  in  your  propensities  to  any  ex- 
tent in  your  family  circle  ;  keep  your  immediate  relatives, 
if  you  like,  in  convulsions  of  inextinguishable  laughter  all 
the  time  ;  but  when  you  mingle  in  society  guard  your  secret 
with  your  life.  Is  ever  make  a  joke,  and,  if  necessary,  never 
take  one  ;  and  by  so  doing  you  shall  perad  venture  escape 
that  wrath  to  come  to  which  I  have  fallen  an  innocent  vic- 
tim, and  which  I  doubt  not  will  bring  me  to  an  untimely 
end. — The  Independent. 

And  a  few  pages  from  Miss  Murfree,  who  has  shown  such 
rare  power  in  her  short  character  sketches. 

A  BLACKSMITH   IN   LOVE. 

BY  CHARLES  EGBERT  CRADDOCK. 

The  pine-knots  flamed  and  glistened  under  the  great 
wash-kettle.  A  tree-toad  was  persistently  calling  for  rain 
in  the  dry  distance.  The  girl,  gravely  impassive,  beat  th6 
clothes  with  the  heavy  paddle.  Her  mother  shortly  ceased 
to  prod  the  white  heaps  in  the  boiling  water,  and  presently 
took  up  the  thread  of  her  discourse. 

"  An'  'Vander  hev  got  ter  be  a  mighty  suddint  man.  I 
hearn  tell,  when  I  war  down  ter  M'ria's  house  ter  the  quilt- 


136  THE   WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

in',  ez  how  in  that  sorter  fight  an'  scrimmage  they  hed  at 
the  mill  las'  month,  he  war  powerful  ill-conducted.  No- 
body hed  thought  of  hevin'  much  of  a  fight — thar  hed  been 
jes'  a  few  licks  passed  atwixt  the  men  thar  ;  but  the  fust 
finger  ez  war  laid  on  this  boy,  lie  jes'  lit  out,  an'  fit  like  a 
catamount.  Right  an'  lef  he  lay  about  him  with  his  fists, 
an'  he  drawed  his  him  tin' -knife  on  some  of  'em.  The  men 
at  the  mill  war  in  no  wise  pleased  with  him." 

"'Pears  like  ter  me  ez  'Yander  air  a  peaceable  boy 
enough,  ef  he  ain't  jawed  at  an'  air  lef  be,"  drawled 
Cynthia. 

Her  mother  was  embarrassed  for  a  moment.  Then,  with 
a  look  both  sly  and  wise,  she  made  an  admission — a  qualified 
admission.  "  Waal,  wimmen — ef  — ef — ef  they  air  young 
an'  tolerable  hard-headed  yit,  air  likely  ter  jaw  some,  enny- 
how.  An'  a  gal  oughtn't  ter  marry  a  man  ez  hev  sot  his 
heart  on  bein'  lef  in  peace.  He  is  apt  ter  be  a  mighty 
sour  an'  disapp'inted  critter." 

This  sudden  turn  to  the  conversation  invested  all  that 
had  been  said  with  new  meaning,  and  revealed  a  subtle 
diplomatic  intention.  The  girl  seemed  deliberately  to 
review  it  as  she  paused  in  her  work.  Then,  with  a  rising 
flush  :  "  I  ain't  studyin'  'bout  marryin'  nobody,"  she 
asserted  staidly.  "  I  hev  laid  off  ter  live  single." 

Mrs.  Ware  had  overshot  the  mark,  but  she  retorted,  gal- 
lantly reckless  :  "  That's  what  yer  Aunt  Malviny  useter 
declar'  fur  gospel  sure,  when  she  war  a  gal.  An'  she  hev 
got  ten  chil'ren,  an'  hev  buried  two  husbands  ;  an'  ef  all 
they  say  air  true,  she's  tollin'  in  the  third  man  now.  She's 
a  mighty  spry,  good -featured  woman,  an'  a  fust-rate  man- 
ager, yer  Aunt  Malviny  air,  an'  both  her  husbands  lef 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  137 

her  suthin — cows,  or  wagons,  or  land.  An'  they  war  quiet 
men  when  they  war  alive,  an'  stays  whar  they  air  put  now 
that  they  air  dead  ;  not  like  old  Parson  Hoodenpyle,  what 
his  wife  hears  stumpin'  round  the  house  an'  preachin'  every 
night,  though  she  air  ez  deef  ez  a  post,  an'  he  hev  been  in 
glory  twenty  year — twenty  year  an'  better.  Yer  Aunt 
Malviny  hed  luck,  so  mebbe  'tain't  no  kiilin'  complaint  fur 
a  gal  ter  git  ter  talking  like  a  fool  about  marryin'  an'  sech. 
Leastwise  I  ain't  minded  ter  sorrow." 

She  looked  at  her  daughter  with  a  gay  grin,  which,  dis- 
torted by  her  toothless  gums  and  the  wreathing  steam  from 
the  kettle,  enhanced  her  witch-like  aspect  and  was  spuri- 
ously malevolent.  She  did  not  notice  the  stir  of  an  ap- 
proach through  the  brambly  tangles  of  the  heights  above 
until  it  was  close  at  hand  ;  as  she  turned,  she  thought  only 
of  the  mountain  cattle  and  to  see  the  red  cow's  picturesque 
head  and  crumpled  horns  thrust  over  the  sassafras  bushes,  or 
to  hear  the  brindle's  clanking  bell.  It  was  certainly  less  un- 
expected to  Cynthia  when  a  young  mountaineer,  clad  in 
brown  jean  trousers  and  a  checked  homespun  shirt,  emerged 
upon  the  rocky  slope.  He  still  wore  his  blacksmith's 
leather  apron,  and  his  powerful  corded  hammer-arm  was 
bare  beneath  his  tightly -rolled  sleeve.  He  was  tall  and 
heavily  built  ;  his  sunburned  face  was  square,  with  a 
strong  lower  jaw,  and  his  features  were  accented  by  fine 
lines  of  charcoal,  as  if  the  whole  were  a  clever  sketch. 

His  black  eyes  held  fierce  intimations,  but  there  was 
mobility  of  expression  about  them  that  suggested  changing 
impulses,  strong  but  fleeting.  He  was  like  his  forge-fire  ; 
though  the  heat  might  be  intense  for  a  time,  it  fluctuated 
with  the  breath  of  the  bellows.  Just  now  he  was  meekly 


138  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

quailing  before  the  old  woman,  whom  he  evidently  had  not 
thought  to  find  hero.  It  was  as  apt  an  illustration  as  might 
be,  perhaps,  of  the  inferiority  of  strength  to  h'nesse.  She 
seemed  an  inconsiderable  adversary,  as,  haggard,  lean,  and 
prematurely  aged,  she  swayed  on  her  prodding-stick  about 
the  huge  kettle  ;  but  she  was  as  a  veritable  David  to  this 
big  young  Goliath,  though  she,  too,  flung  hardly  more  than 
a  pebble  at  him. 

"  Laws-a-me  !"  she  cried,  in  shrill,  toothless  glee  ;  "  ef 
hyar  ain't  'Vander  Price  !  What  brung  ye  down  hyar 
along  o'  we-uns,  'Vander  ?"  she  continued,  with  simulated 
anxiety.  "  Hev  that  thar  red  heifer  o'  ourn  lept  over  the 
fence  agin,  an'  got  inter  Pete's  corn  ?  Waal,  sir,  ef  she 
ain't  the  headin'est  heifer  !" 

11 1  hain't  seen  none  o'  yer  heifer,  ez  1  knows  on," 
replied  the  young  blacksmith,  with  gruff,  drawling  depreca- 
tion. Then  he  tried  to  regain  his  natural  manner.  "  I 
kem  down  hyar,"  he  remarked,  in  an  off-hand  way,  "ter 
git  a  drink  o'  water."  He  glanced  furtively  at  the  girl, 
then  looked  quickly  away  at  the  gallant  red-bird,  still  gayly 
parading  among  the  leaves. 

The  old  woman  grinned  with  delight.  "  Now,  ef  that 
ain't  s'prisin',"  she  declared.  "  Ef  we  hed  knowed  ez 
Lost  Creek  war  a-goin'  dry  over  yander  a-nigli  the  shop,  so 
ye  an'  Pete  would  hev  ter  kem  hyar  thirstin'  fur  water, 
we-uns  would  hev  brung  suthin'  down  hyar  ter  drink  out'n. 
We-uns  hain't  got  no  gourd  hyar,  hev  we,  Cynthy  ?" 

"  'Thout  it  air  the  little  gourd  with  the  saft-soap  in  it," 
said  Cynthia,  confused  and  blushing.  Her  mother  broke 
into  a  high,  loud  laugh. 

"  Ye  ain't  wantin'  ter  gin  'Vander  the  soap-gourd  ter 


PKOSE,    BUT   NOT   PROSY. 

drink  out'n,  Cynthy  !  Leastwise,  1  ain't  goin'  ter  gin  it 
ter  Pete.  Fur  I  s'pose  ef  ye  hev  ter  kein  a  haffen  mile  ter 
git  a  drink,  'Yander,  ez  surely  Pete' 11  hev  ter  kein,  too. 
Waal,  waal,  who  would  liev  b'lieved  ez  Lost  Creek  would 
go  dry  nigh  the  shop,  an'  yit  be  a-scuttlin'  along  like  that 
hyarabouts  !"  and  she  pointed  with  her  bony  finger  at  the 
swift  flow  of  the  water. 

He  was  forced  to  abandon  his  clumsy  pretence  of  thirst. 
"  Lost  Creek  ain't  gone  dry  nowhar,  ez  I  knows  on,"  he 
admitted,  mechanically  rolling  the  sleeve  of  his  hammer- 
arm  up  and  down  as  he  talked. 

From  Miss  Woolson's  story  of  '*  Anne,"  I  give  the  pen- 
portrait  of  the  precise 

"MISS  LOIS." 

"  Codfish  balls  for  breakfast  on  Sunday  morning,  of 
course,"  said  Miss  Lois,  "  and  fried  hasty-pudding.  On 
Wednesdays,  a  boiled  dinner.  Pies  on  Tuesdays  and  Satur- 
days." 

The  pins  stood  in  straight  rows  on  her  pincushion  ;  three 
times  each  week  every  room  in  the  house  was  swept,  and 
the  floors,  as  well  as  the  furniture,  dusted.  Beans  were 
baked  in  an  iron  pot  on  Saturday  night,  and  sweet-cake 
was  made  on  Thursday.  Winter  or  summer,  through 
scarcity  or  plenty,  Miss  Lois  never  varied  her  established 
routine,  thereby  setting  an  example,  she  said,  to  the  idle 
and  shiftless.  And  certainly  she  was  a  faithful  guide-post, 
continually  pointing  out  an  industrious  and  systematic  way, 
which,  however,  to  the  end  of  time,  no  French -blooded, 
French-hearted  person  will  ever  travel,  unless  dragged  by 


14:0  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

force.  The  villagers  preferred  their  lake  trout  to  Miss 
Lois's  salt  codfish,  their  tartines  to  her  corn-meal  pud- 
dings, and  their  eau-de-vie  to  her  green  tea  ;  they  loved 
their  disorder  and  their  comfort  ;  her  bar  soap  and  scrub- 
bing-brush were  a  horror  to  their  eyes.  They  washed  the 
household  clothes  two  or  three  times  a  year.  Was  not  that 
enough  ?  Of  what  use  the  endless  labor  of  this  sharp-nosed 
woman,  with  glasses  over  her  eyes,  at  the  church-house  ? 
Were  not,  perhaps,  the  glasses  the  consequence  of  such 
toil  ?  And  her  figure  of  a  long  leanness  also  ? 

The  element  of  real  heroism,  however,  came  into  Miss 
Lois's  life  in  her  persistent  effort  to  employ  Indian  ser- 
vants. Through  long  years  had  she  persisted,  through  long 
years  would  she  continue  to  persist.  A  succession  of  Chip- 
pewa  squaws  broke,'stole,  and  skirmished  their  way  through 
her  kitchen,  with  various  degrees  of  success,  generally  in 
the  end  departing  suddenly  at  night  with  whatever  booty 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  It  is  but  justice  to  add, 
however,  that  this  Avas  not  much,  a  rigid  systejn  of  keys 
and  excellent  locks  prevailing  in  the  well- watched  house- 
hold. Miss  Lois's  conscience  would  not  allow  her  to  em- 
ploy half-breeds,  who  were  sometimes  endurable  servants  ; 
duty  required,  she  said,  that  she  should  have  full-blooded 
natives.  And  she  had  them.  She  always  began  to  teach 
them  the  alphabet  within  three  days  after  their  arrival,  and 
the  spectacle  of  a  tearful,  freshly-caught  Indian  girl,  very 
wretched  in  her  calico  dress  and  white  apron,  worn  out 
with  the  ways  of  the  kettles  and  the  brasses,  dejected  over 
the  fish-balls,  and  appalled  by  the  pudding,  standing  con- 
fronted by  a  large  alphabet  on  the  well-scoured  table,  and 
Miss  Lois  by  her  side  with  a  pointer,  was  frequent  and  even 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  141 

regular  in  its  occurrence,  the  only  change  being  in  the  per- 
sonality of  the  learners.  No  one  of  them  had  ever  gone 
through  the  letters,  but  Miss  Lois  was  not  discouraged. 

THE   CIRCUS  AT   DENBY. 

BY    SARAH   ORNE   JEWETT. 

I  cannot  truthfully  say  that  it  was  a  good  show  ;  it  was 
somewhat  dreary,  now  that  I  think  of  it  quietly  and  with- 
out excitement.  The  creatures  looked  tired,  and  as  if  they 
had  been  on  the  road  for  a  great  many  years.  The  animals 
were  all  old,  and  there  was  a  shabby  great  elephant  whose 
look  of  general  discouragement  went  to  my  heart,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  miserably  conscious  of  a  misspent  life. 
He  stood  dejected  and  motionless  at  one  side  of  the  tent, 
and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  there  was  a  spark  of  vitality 
left  in  him.  A  great  number  of  the  people  had  never  seen 
an  elephant  before,  and  we  heard  a  thin,  little  old  man, 
who  stood  near  us,  say  delightedly  :  "  There's  the  old 
creatur',  and  no  mistake,  Ann  'Liza.  I  wanted,  to  see  him 
most  of  anything.  My  sakes  alive,  ain't  he  big  !" 

And  Ann  'Liza,  who  was  stout  and  sleepy-looking, 
droned  out  :  "  Ye-es,  there's  consider'ble  of  him  ;  but  he 
looks  as  if  he  ain't  got  no  animation." 

Kate  and  I  turned  away  and  laughed,  while  Mrs.  Kew 
said,  confidentially,  as  the  couple  moved  away:  .tlShe 
needn't  be  a  reflectin'  on  the  poor  beast.  That's  Mis'  Seth 
Tanner,  and  there  isn't  a  woman  in  Deep  Haven  nor  East 
Parish  to  be  named  the  same  day  with  her  for  laziness. 
I'm  glad  she  didn't  catch  sight  of  me  ;  she'd  have  talked 
about  nothing  for  a  fortnight."  There  was  a  picture  of  a 


142  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

huge  snake  in  Dfeep  Haven,  and  I  was  just  wondering 
where  he  could  be,  or  if  there  ever  had  been  one,  when  we 
heard  a  boy  ask  the  same  question  of  the  man  whose  thank- 
less task  it  was  to  stir  up  the  lions  with  a  stick  to  make 
them  roar.  "  The  snake's  dead,"  he  answered,  good- 
naturedly.  "  Didn't  you  have  to  dig  an  awful  long  grave 
for  him  ?"  asked  the  boy  ;  but  the  man  said  he  reckoned 
they  curled  him  up  some,  and  smiled  as  he  turned  to  his 
lions,  that  looked  as  if  they  needed  a  tonic.  Everybody 
lingered  longest  before  the  monkeys,  that  seemed  to  be  the 
only  lively  creatures  in  the  whole  collection.  .  .  . 

Coming  out  of  the  great  tent  was  disagreeable  enough, 
and  we  seemed  to  have  chosen  the  worst  time,  for  the 
crowd  pushed  fiercely,  though  I  suppose  nobody  was  in  the 
least  hurry,  and  we  were  all  severely  jammed,  while  from 
somewhere  underneath  came  the  wails  of  a  deserted  dog. 
We  had  not  meant  to  see  the  side  shows  ;  but  when  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  picture  of  the  Kentucky  giantess,  we 
noticed  that  Mrs.  Kew  looked  at  it  wistfully,  and  we  imme- 
diately asked  if  she  cared  anything  about  going  to  see  the 
wonder,  whereupon  she  confessed  that  she  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  a  woman's  weighing  six  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  ;  so  we  all  three  went  in.  There  were  only  two  or 
three  persons  inside  the  tent,  beside  a  little  boy  who  played 
the  hand -organ. 

The  Kentucky  giantess  sat  in  two  chairs  on  a  platform, 
and  there  was  a  large  cage  of  monkeys  just  beyond,  toward 
which  Kate  and  I  went  at  once.  "  Why,  she  isn't  more 
than  two  thirds  as  big  as  the  picture,"  said  Mrs.  Kew,  in  a 
regretful  whisper  ;  "  but  1  guess  she's  big  enough  ;  doesn't 
she  look  discouraged,  poor  creatur'  ?"  Kate  and  I  felt 


PROSE,    BUT   NOT   PROSY.  14:3 

ashamed  of  ourselves  for  being  there.  '  Xo  matter  if  she 
had  consented  to  be  carried  round  for  a  show,  it  must  have 
been  horrible  to  be  stared  at  and  joked  about  day  after  day  ; 
and  we  gravely  looked  at  the  monkeys,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes turned  to  see  if  Mrs.  Kew  were  not  ready  to  come 
away,  when,  to  our  surprise,  we  saw  that  she  was  talking  to 
the  giantess  with  great  interest,  and  we  went  nearer. 

"  I  thought  your  face  looked  natural  the  minute  I  set 
foot  inside  the  door,"  said  Mrs.  Kew  ;  "  but  you've  altered 
some  since  I  saw  you,  and  I  couldn't  place  you  till  I  heard 
you  speak.  Why,  you  used  to  be  spare.  I  am  amazed, 
Mar  illy  !  Where  are  your  folks  ?" 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  are  surprised,"  said  the  giantess. 
"  I  was  a  good  ways  from  this  when  you  knew  me,  wasn't 
I  ?  But  father,  he  ran  through  with  every  cent  he  had  be- 
fore he  died,  and  '  he  '  took  to  drink,  and  it  killed  him  after 
a  while  ;  and  then  1  begun  to  grow  worse  and  worse,  till  I 
couldn't  do  nothing  to  earn  a  dollar,  and  everybody  was 
a-coming  to  see  me,  till  at  last  I  used  to  ask  'em  ten  cents 
apiece,  and  I  scratched  along  somehow  till  this  man  came 
round  and  heard  of  me  ;  and  he  offered  me  my  keep  and 
good  pay  to  go  along  with  him.  He  had  another  giantess 
before  me,  but  she  had  begun  to  fall  away  considerable,  so 
he  paid  her  off  and  let  her  go.  This  other  giantess  was  an 
awful  expense  to  him,  she  was  such  an  eater  ;  now,  I  don't 
have  no  great  of  an  appetite" — this  was  said  plaintively— 
"  and  he's  raised  my  pay  since  I've  been  with  him  because 
we  did  so  well."  .  .  . 

"  Have  you  been  living  in  Kentucky  long  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Kew.  "  I  saw  it  on  the  picture  outside." 

"  No,"  said  the  giantess  ;  "  that  was  a  picture  the  man 


THE    WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

bought  cheap  from  another  show  that  broke  up  last  year. 
It  says  six  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  but  I  don't  weigli 
more  than  four  hundred.  I  haven't  been  weighed  for 
some  time  past.  Between  you  and  me,  I  don't  weigh  as 
much  as  that,  but  you  mustn't  mention  it,  for  it  would 
spoil  my  reputation  and  might  hinder  my  getting  another 
engagement." 

Then  they  shook  hands  in  a  way  that  meant  a  great  deal, 
and  when  Kate  and  I  said  good-afternoon,  the  giantess 
looked  at  us  gratefully,  and  said  :  "I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  coming  in,  young  ladies." 

"  Walk  in  !  Walk  in  !"  the  man  was  shouting  as  we 
came  away.  "  Walk  in  and  see  the  wonder  of  the  world, 
ladies  and  gentlemen — the  largest  woman  ever  seen  in 
America — the  great  Kentucky  giantess  !" 

NEW  YORK   TO   NEWPORT. 
A  Trip  of  Trials. 

BY     LOUISE     CHANDLER     MOULTON. 

The  Jane  Moseley  was  a  disappointment — most  Janes  are. 
If  they  had  called  her  Samuel,  no  doubt  she  would  have 
behaved  better  ;  but  they  called  her  Jane,  and  the  natural 
consequences  of  our  mistakes  cannot  be  averted  from  our- 
selves or  others.  A  band  was  playing  wild  strains  of  wel- 
come as  we  approached.  Come  and  sail  with  us,  it  said — it 
is  summer,  and  the  days  are  long.  Care  is  of  the  land — 
here  the  waves  flow,  and  the  winds  blow,  and  captain 
smiles,  and  stewardess  beguiles,  and  all  is  music,  music, 
music.  How  the  wild,  exultant  strains  rose  and  fell — but 
everything  rose  and  fell  on  that  boat,  as  we  found  out  after- 
ward. Just  here  a  spirit  of  justice  falls  on  me,  like  the 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PEOSY.  145 

gentle  dew  from  heaven,  and  forces  me  to  admit  that  it 
rained  like  a  young  doluge  ;  that  it  had  been  raining  for 
two  days,  and  the  bosom  of  the  deep  was  heaving  with 
responsive  sympathy  ;  as  what  bosom  would  not  on  which 
so  many  tears  had  been  shed  ?  Perhaps  responsive  sympa- 
thy was  the  secret  of  the  Jane  Moseley's  behavior  ;  but  I 
would  her  heart  had  been  less  tender.  Then,  too,  the  pas- 
sengers were  few  ;  and  of  course  as  we  had  to  divide  the 
roll  and  tumble  between  us,  there  was  a  great  deal  for  each 
one. 

There  wras  a  Pretty  Girl,  and  she  had  a  sister  who  was 
not  pretty.  It  seemed  to  me  that  even  the  sad  sea  waves 
were  kinder  to  the  Pretty  Girl,  such  is  the  influence  of 
youth  and  beauty.  There  were  various  men — heavy  swells 
I  should  call  some  of  them,  only  that  that  would  be  slang  ; 
but  heavy  swells  were  the  order  of  the  day.  Then  there 
was  a  benevolent  old  lady  who  believed  in  everything — in 
the  music,  and  the  Jane  Moseley,  and  the  long  days,  and 
the  summer.  There  was  another  old  lady  of  restless  mind, 
who  evidently  believed  in  nothing,  hoped  for  nothing,  ex- 
pected nothing.  She  tried  all  the  lounges  and  all  the  cor- 
ners, and  found  each  one  a  separate  disappointment.  There 
was  a  fat,  fair  one,  of  friendly  face,  and  beside  her  her  grim 
guardian,  a  man  so  thin  that  you  at  once  cast  him  for  the 
part  of  Starveling  in  this  Midsummer  Day's  Dream  of  De- 
lusion. 

We  put  out  from  shore — quite  out  of  sight  of  shore,  in 
short — and  then  the  perfidious  music  ceased.  To  the  peo- 
ple on  land  it  had  sung,  "  Come  and  make  merry  with  us," 
but  from  us,  trying  in  vain  to  make  merry,  it  withheld  its 
deceitful  inspiration.  For  the  exceeding  weight  of  sorrow 


146  THE  WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

that  presently  settled  down  upon  us  it  had  no  balm.  When 
you  are  on  a  pleasure  trip  it  is  unpleasant  to  be  miserable  ; 
so  I  tried  hard  to  shake  off  the  mild  melancholy  that  began 
to  steal  over  me.  1  said  to  myself,  I  will  not  affront  the 
great  deep  with  my  personal  woes.  I  am  but  a  woman,  yet 
perhaps  on  this  so  great  occasion  magnanimity  of  soul  will 
be  possible  even  to  me.  I  will  consider  my  neighbors  and 
be  wise.  At  one  end  of  the  long  saloon  a  banquet-board 
was  spread.  Its  hospitality  was,  like  the  other  attractions 
of  the  Jane  Moseley,  a  perfidious  pageant.  Nobody  sought 
its  soup  or  claimed  its  clams.  One  or  two  sad-eyed  young 
men  made  their  way  in  that  direction  from  time  to  time- 
after  their  sea-legs,  perhaps.  From  their  gait  when  they 
came  back  1  inferred  they  did  not  find  them.  The  human 
nature  in  the  saloon  became  a  weariness  to  me.  Even  the 
gentle  gambols  of  the  dog  Thaddeus,  a  sportive  and  spotted 
pointer  in  whom  I  had  been  interested,  failed  to  soothe  my 
perturbed  spirits.  De  Quincey  speaks  somewhere  of  "  the 
awful  solitariness  of  every  human  soul."  No  wonder,  then, 
that  I  should  be  solitary  among  the  festive  few  on  board  the 
Jane  Moseley — no  wonder  I  felt  myself  darkly,  deeply,  des- 
pgrately  blue.  I  thought  I  would  go  on  deck.  I  clung  to 
my  companion  with  an  ardor  which  would  have  been  flat- 
tering had  it  been  voluntary.  My  faltering  steps  were 
guided  to  a  seat  just  within  the  guards.  I  sat  there  think- 
ing that  I  had  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle,  so  1  could  not  be 
quite  sure  whether  it  would  have  died  or  not,  but  I  thought 
it  would.  I  mused  on  the  changing  fortunes  of  this  un- 
steady world,  and  the  ingratitude  of  man.  I  thought  it 
would  be  easier  going  to  the  Promised  Land  if  Jordan  did 
not  roll  between.  Rolling  had  long  ceased  to  be  a  pleasant 


PROSE,  BUT  NOT  PROSY.  147 

figure  of  speech  with  me.  How  frail  are  all  things  here 
below,  how  false,  and  yet.  how  fair  !  My  mind  is  naturally 
picturesque.  In  the  midst  of  my  sadness  the  force  of  nat- 
ure compelled  me  to  grope  after  an  illustration.  I  could 
only  think  that  my  own  foothold  was  frail,  that  the  Jane 
Moseley  was  false,  that  the  Pretty  Girl  was  fair.  A  dizzi- 
ness of  brain  resulted  from  this  rhetorical  effort.  I  silently 
confided  my  sorrows  to  the  sympathizing  bosom  of  the  sea. 
I  was  soothed  by  the  kindred  melancholy  of  the  sad  sea 
waves.  If  the  size  of  the  waves  were  remarkable,  other 
sighs  abounded  also,  and  other  things  waved — many  of  them. 

True  to  my  purpose  of  studying  my  fellow-beings,  and 
learning  wisdom  by  observation,  I  surveyed  the  Pretty  Girl 
and  her  sister,  who  had  by  that  time  come  on  deck.  They 
were  surrounded  by  a  group  of  audacious  male  creatures, 
who  surrounded  most  on  the  side  where  the  Pretty  Girl  sat. 
She  did  not  look  feeble.  She  was  like  the  red,  red  rose. 
It  was  a  conundrum  to  me  why  so  much  greater  anxiety 
should  be  bestowed  upon  her  health  than  upon  her  sister's. 
It  needed  some  moral  reflection  to  make  it  out  ;  but  1  con- 
cluded that  pretty  girls  were,  by  some  law  of  nature,  more 
subject  to  sea-sickness  than  plain  ones  ;  therefore,  all  these 
careful  cares  were  quite  in  order.  I  saw  the  two  old  ladies 
— the  benevolent  one  who  had  believed  so  implicitly  in  all 
things,  but  over  whose  benign  visage  doubt  had  now  begun 
to  settle  like  a  cloud  ;  and  the  other,  who  had  hoped  noth- 
ing from  the  first,  and  therefore  over  whom  no  disappoint- 
ment could  prevail  —  and,  seeing,  I  mildly  wondered 
whether,  indeed,  'twere  better  to  have  loved  and  lost,  or 
never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

My  thoughts  grew  solemn.     The  green  shores  beyond  the 


THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 


swelling  flood  seemed  farther  off  than  ever.  The  Jane 
Moseley  had  promised  to  land  us  at  Newport  pier  at  seven 
o'clock.  It  was  already  half-past  seven  ;  oh,  perfidious 
Jane  !  Darkness  had  settled  upon  the  face  of  the  deep. 
We  went  inside.  The  sad-eyed  young  men  had  evidently 
been  hunting  for  their  sea-legs  again,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  banqueti  ng-table,  where  nobody  banqueted.  Failing 
to  find  the  secret  of  correct  locomotion,  they  had  laid  them- 
selves down  to  sleep,  but  in  that  sleep  at  sea  what  dreams 
did  come,  and  how  noisy  they  were  !  The  dog  Thaddeus 
walked  by  dejectedly,  sniffing  at  the  ghost  of  some  half-for- 
gotten joy.  At  last  there  rose  a  cry  —  Newport  !  The 
sleepers  started  to  their  feet.  I  started  to  mine,  but  I  dis- 
creetly and  quietly  sat  down  again.  Was  it  Newport,  at 
last  ?  Not  at  all.  The  harbor  lights  were  gleaming  from 
afar  ;  and  the  cry  was  of  the  bandmaster  shouting  to  his 
emissaries,  arousing  fiddle  and  flute  and  bassoon  to  their 
deceitful  duty.  They  had  played  us  out  of  port  —  they 
would  play  us  in  again.  They  had  promised  us  that  all 
should  go  merry  as  a  marriage-  bell,  and  —  I  would  not  be 
understood  to  complain,  but  it  had  been  a  sad  occasion. 
Now  the  deceitful  strains  rose  and  fell  again  upon  the  salt 
sea  wind.  The  many  lights  glowed  and  twinkled  from  the 
near  shore.  We  are  all  at  play,  come  and  play  with  us, 
screamed  the  soft  waltz  music.  It  is  summer,  and  the  days 
are  long,  and  trouble  is  not,  and  care  is  banished.  If  the 
waves  sigh,  it  is  with  bliss.  Our  voyage  is  ended.  It  is 
sad  that  you  did  not  sail  with  us,  but  we  will  invite  you 
again  to-morrow,  and  the  band  shall  play,  and  the  crowd  be 
gay,  and  airs  beguile,  and  blue  skies  smile,  and  all  shall  be 
music,  music,  music.  But  I  have  sailed  with  you,  on  a 


PROSE,    BUT   NOT   PROSV.  141) 

summer  day,  bland  master  of  a  faithless  band  ;  and  I  know 
how  soon  jour  pipes  are  dumb — I  know  the  tricks  and  man- 
ners of  the  clouds  and  the  wind,  and  the  swelling  sea,  and 
Jane  Moseley,  the  perfidious. 

I  must,  after  all,  have  strong  local  attachments,  for  when 
at  last  the  time  came  to  land  I  left  the  ship  with  lingering 
reluctance.  My  feet  seemed  fastened  to  the  deck  where  I 
had  made  my  brief  home  on  the  much  rolling  deep.  I  had 
grown  used  to  pain  and  resigned  to  fate.  I  walked  the 
plank  unsteadily.  I  stood  on  shore  amid  the  rain  and  the 
mist.  A  hackman  preyed  upon  me.  I  was  put  into  an 
ancient  ark  and  trundled  on  through  the  queer,  irresolute, 
contradictory  old  stseets,  beside  the  lovely  bay,  all  aglow 
with  the  lighted  yachts,  as  a  Southern  swamp  is  with  fire- 
flies. A  torchlight  procession  met  and  escorted  me.  To 
this  hour  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  this  attention  was 
a  delicate  tribute  on  the  part  of  the  pity  of  Newport  to  a 
distinguished  guest,  or  a  parting  attention  from  the  com- 
pany who  sail  the  Jane  Moseley,  and  advertise  in  the  Trib- 
une— a  final  subterfuge  to  persuade  a  tortured  passenger,  by 
means  of  this  transitory  glory,  that  the  sail  upon  a  summer 
sea  had  been  a  pleasure  trip.  — Letter  to  New  York  Tribune. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HUMOROUS    POEMS. 

I  WILL  next  group  a  score  of  poems  and  doggerel  rhymes 
with  their  various  degrees  of  humor. 

THE  FIRST  NEEDLE. 

BY    LUCBKTIA    P.    HALE. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  new  invention,  my  dears, 
That  a  man  has  invented  ?"  said  she. 

"  It's  a  stick  with  an  eye 

Through  which  you  can  tie 
A  thread  so  long,  it  acts  like  a  thong, 

And  the  men  have  such  fun, 

To  see  the  thing  rnn  ! 

A  firm,  strong  thread,  through  that  eye  at  the  head, 
Is  pulled  over  the  edges  most  craftily, 
And  makes  a  beautiful  seam  to  see  !" 

"  What,  instead  of  those  wearisome  thorns,  my  dear, 
Those  wearisome  thorns?"  cried  they. 

"  The  seam  we  pin 

Driving  them  in, 

But  where  are  they  by  the  end  of  the  day, 
With  dancing,  and  jumping,  and  leaps  by  the  sea? 

For  wintry  weather 

They  won't  hold  together, 
Seal-skins  and  bear-skins  all  dropping  round 
Off  from  our  shoulders  down  to  the  ground. 
The  thorns,  the  tiresome  thorns,  will  prick, 
But  none  of  them  ever  consented  to  stick  ! 
Oh,  won't  the  men  let  us  this  new  thing  use? 
If  we  mend  their  clothes  they  can't  refuse. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  151 

Ah,  to  sew  up  a  seam  for  them  to  see — 
What  a  treat,  a  delighttul  treat,  'twill  be  !" 

"  Yes,  a  nice  thing,  too,  for  the  babies,  my  dears — 
But,  alas,  there  is  but  one  !"  cried  she. 
"  I  saw  them  passing  it  round,  and  then 
They  said  it  was  tit  for  only  men  ! 

What  woman  would  know 

How  to  make  the  thing  go  ? 
There  was  not  a  man  so  foolish  to  dream 
That  any  woman  could  sew  up  a  seam  !" 
Oh,  then  there  was  babbling  and  scrabbling,  my  dears  ! 
"  At  least  they  might  let  us  do  that  !"   cried  they. 

"  Let  them  shout  and  fight 

And  kill  bears  all  night  ; 

We'll  leave  them  their  spears  and  hatchets  of  stone 
If  they'll  give  us  this  thing  for  our  very  own. 
It  will  be  like  a  joy  above  all  we  could  scheme, 
To  sit  up  all  night  and  sew  such  a  seam." 

"  Beware  !  take  care  !"  cried  an  aged  old  crone, 
"  Take  care  what  you  promise,"  said  she. 

"  At  first  'twill  be  fun, 

But,  in  the  long  run, 
You'll  wish  you  had  let  the  thing  be. 

Through  this  stick  with  an  eye 

I  look  and  espy 

That  for  ages  and  ages  you'll  sit  and  you'll  sew, 
And  longer  and  longer  the  seams  will  grow, 
And  you'll  wish  you  never  had  asked  to  sew. 

But  naught  that  I  say 

Can  keep  back  the  day, 

For  the  men  will  return  to  their  hunting  and  rowing, 
And  leave  to  the  women  forever  the  sewing." 

Ah,  what  are  the  words  of  an  aged  crone  ? 

For  all  have  left  her  muttering  alone  ; 

And  the  needle  and  thread  that  they  got  with  such  pains, 

They  forever  must  keep  as  dagger  and  chains. 


152  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

THE  FUNNY  STOKY. 

BY      JOSEPHINE     POLLAHD. 

It  was  such  a  funny  story  !  how  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  it, 
For  it  set  us  all  a-laughing,  from  the  little  to  the  big  ; 

I'd  really  like  to  tell  it,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  word  it, 
Though  it  travels  to  the  music  of  a  very  lively  jig. 

If  Sally  just  began  it,  then  Amelia  Jane  would  giggle, 
And  Mehetable  and  Susan  try  their  very  broadest  grin  ; 

And  the  infant  Zachariah  on  his  mother's  lap  would  wriggle, 
And  add  a  lusty  chorus  to  the  very  merry  din. 

It  was  such  a  funny  story,  with  its  cheery  snap  and  crackle, 

And  Sally  always  told  it  with  so  much  dramatic  art, 
That  the  chickens  in  the  door-yard  would  begin  to  "  cackle-cackle," 

As  if  in  such  a  frolic  they  were  anxious  to  take  part. 

It  was  all  about  a — ha  !  ha  ! — and  a — ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! — well  really, 
It  is— he  !  he  !  he  !— I  never  could  begin  to  tell  you  half 

Of  the  nonsense  there  was  in  it,  for  I  just  remember  clearly 
It  began  with— ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  and  it  ended  with  a  laugh. 

But  Sally — she  could  tell  it,  looking  at  us  so  demurely. 

With  a  woe-begone  expression  that  no  actress  would  despise  ; 
And  if  you'd  never  heard  it,  why  you  would  imagine  surely 

That  you'd  need  your  pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  ycur  weeping  eyes. 

When  age  my  hair  has  silvered,  and  my  step  has  grown  unsteady, 
And  the  nearest  to  my  vision  are  the  scenes  of  long  ago, 

I  shall  see  the  pretty  picture,  and  the  tears  may  come  as  ready 
As  the  laugh  did,  when  I  used  to — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  and — ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! 

A  SONNET. 

BY  JOSEPHINE   POLLAKD. 

Once  a  poet  wrote  a  sonnet 
All  about  a  pretty  bonnet, 
And  a  critic  sat  upon  it 

(On  the  sonnet, 

Not  the  bonnet), 
Nothing  loath. 


HUMOROUS   POEMS.  153 

And  as  if  it  were  high  treason, 

He  said  :  "  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason 

Has  it  ;  and  it's  out  of  season." 

Which  ?  the  sonnet 

Or  the  bonnet  ? 
Maybe  both. 

"  'Tis  a  feeble  imitation 
Of  a  worthier  creation  ; 
An  aesthetic  innovation !" 

Of  a  sonnet 

Or  .a  bonnet? 
This  was  hard. 

Both  were  put  together  neatly, 

Harmonizing  very  sweetly, 

But  the  critic  crushed  completely 

Not  the  bonnet, 

Or  the  sonnet, 
But  the  bard. 


WANTED,    A  MINISTEK. 

BY    MBS.    M.    E.    Vf.    8KEELS. 

We've  a  church,  tho'  the  belfry  is  leaning, 

They  are  talking  I  think  of  repair, 
And  the  Ml,  oh,  pray  but  excuse  us, 

'Twas  talked  of,  but  never' s  been  there. 
Now,  "  Wanted,  a  real  live  minister," 

And  to  settle  the  same  for  life, 
We've  an  organ  and  some  one  to  play  it, 

So  we  don't  care  a  fig  for  his  wife. 

We  once  had  a  pastor  (don't  tell  it), 
But  we  chanced  on  a  time  to  discover 

That  his  sermons  were  writ  long  ago, 
And  he  had  preached  them  twice  over. 


154:  THE   WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

How  sad  this  mistake,  tho'  unmeaning, 
Oh,  it  made  such  a  desperate  muss  ! 

Both  deacon  and  laymen  were  vexed, 
And  decided,  "  He's  no  man  for  us." 

And  then  the  "  old  nick  "  was  to  pay, 

"  Truth  indeed  is  stranger  than  fiction," 
His  prayers  were  so  tedious  and  long, 

People  slept,  till  the  benediction. 
And  then  came  another,  on  trial, 

Who  actually  preached  in  h  is  gloves, 
His  manner  so  awkward  and  queer, 

That  we  settled  him  off  and  he  moved. 

And  then  came  another  so  meek, 

That  his  name  really  ought  to  've  been  Moses; 
We  almost  considered  him  settled, 

When  lo  !  the  secret  discloses, 
He'd  attacks  of  nervous  disease, 

That  unfit  him  for  every -day  duty  ; 
His  sermons,  oh,  never  can  please, 

They  lack  both  in  force  and  beauty. 

Now,  "wanted,  a  minister,"  really,' 

That  won't  preach  his  old  sermons  over, 
That  will  make  short  prayers  while  in  church, 

With  no  fault  that  the  ear  can  discover, 
That  is  very  forbearing,  yes  very, 

That  blesses  wherever  he  moves — 
Not  TOO  zealous,  nor  lacking  for  zeal, 

That  preaches  without  any  gloves  / 

Now,  "  wanted,  a  minister,"  really, 

' '  That  was  born  ere  nerves  came  in  fashion," 
That  never  complains  of  the  "  headache, " 

That  never  is  roused  to  a  passion. 
He  must  add  to  the  wisdom  of  Solomon 

The  unwearied  patience  of  Job, 
Must  be  mute  in  political  matters, 

Or  doff  his  clerical  robe. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS..  155 

If  he  pray  for  the  present  Congress, 

He  must  speak  in  an  undertone  ; 
If  he  pray  for  President  Johnson, 

He  NEEDS  'em,  why  let  him  go  on. 
He  must  touch  upon  doctrines  so  lightly, 

That  no  one  can  take  an  offence, 
Mustn't  meddle  with  predestination — 

In  short,  must  preach  "  common  sense." 

Now  really  wanted  a  minister, 

With  religion  enough  to  sustain  him, 
For  the  salary's  exceedingly  small, 

And  faith  alone  must  maintain  him. 
He  must  visit  the  sick  and  afflicted, 

Must  mourn  with  those  that  mourn, 
Must  preach  the  "  funeral  sermons" 

With  a  very  peculiar  turn. 

He  must  preach  at  the  north-west  school-house 

On  every  Thursday  eve, 
And  things  too  numerous  to  mention 

He  must  do,  and  must  believe. 
He  must  be  of  careful  demeanor, 

Both  graceful  and  eloquent  too, 
Must  adjust  his  cravat  "  a  la  mode," 

Wear  his  beaver,  decidedly,  so. 

Now  if  some  one  will  deign  to  be  shepherd 

To  this  "  our  peculiar  people," 
Will  be  first  to  subscribe  for  a  bell, 

And  help  us  to  right  up  the  steeple, 
If  correct  in  doctrinal  points 

(We've  a  committee  of  investigation), 
If  possessed  of  these  requisite  graces, 

We'll  accept  him  perhaps  on  probation. 

Then  if  two- thirds  of  the  church  can  agree, 

We'll  settle  him  here  for  life  ; 
Now,  we  advertise,  "  Wanted,  a  Minister," 

And  not  a  minister's  wife. 


156  THE   WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

THE   MIDDY  OF   1881. 

BY    MAY    CEOLY    KOPEB. 

I'm  tho  dearest,  I'm  the  sweetest  little  mid 

To  be  found  in  journeying  from  here  to  Hades, 
I  am  also,  nat-u-rally,  a  prodid- 

Gious  favorite  with  all  the  pretty  ladies. 
I  know  nothing,  but  say  a,  mighty  deal  ; 

My  elevated  nose,  likewise,  oomes  handy  ; 
I  stalk  around,  my  great  importance  feel — 

In  short,  I'm  a  brainless  little  dandy. 

My  hair  is  light,  and  waves  above  my  brow, 

My  mustache  can  just  be  seen  through  opera-glasses ; 
I  originate  but  flee  from  every  row, 

And  no  one  knows  as  well  as  I  what  "  sass"  is  ! 
The  officers  look  down  on  me  with  scorn, 

The  sailors  jeer  at  me — behind  my  jacket,1 
But  still  my  heart  is  not  "  with  anguish  torn," 

And  life  with  me  is  one  continued  racket. 

Whene'er  the  captain  sends  me  with  a  boat, 

The  seamen  know  an  idiot  has  got  'em  ; 
They  make  their  wills  and  are  prepared  to  die, 

yuite  certain  they  are  going  to  the  bottom. 
But  what  care  I !     For  when  I  go  ashore, 

In  uniform  with  buttons  bright  and  shining, 
The  girls  all  cluster  'round  me  to  adore, 

And  lots  of  'em  for  love  of  me  are  pining. 

I  strut  and  dance,  and  fool  my  life  away  ; 

I'm  nautical  in  past  and  future  tenses  ! 
Long  as  I  know  an  ocean  from  a  bay, 

I'll  shy  the  rest,  and  take  the  consequences. 
I'm  the  dearest,  I'm  the  sweetest  little  mid 

That  ever  graced  the  tail-end  of  his  classes, 
And  through  a  four  years'  course  of  study  slidj 

First  am  I  in  the  list  of  Nature's— donkeys  ! 

— Scribner's  Magazine  Bric-a-Brac,  1881. 


HUMOROUS   POEMS.  157 

INDIGNANT  POLLY   WOG. 

BY    MAEGAKET    EYTINGE. 

A  tree-toad  dressed  in  apple-green 

Sat  on  a  mossy  log 
Beside  a  pond,  and  shrilly  sang, 

"  Come  forth,  my  Polly  Wog — 
My  Pol,  my  Ly, — my  Wog, 

My  pretty  Polly  Wog, 
I've  something  very  sweet  to  say, 

My  slender  Polly  Wog  ! 

"  The  air  is  moist,  the  moon  is  hid 

Behind  a  heavy  fog  ; 
No  stars  are  out  to  wink  and  blink 

At  you,  my  Polly  Wog — 
My  Pol,  my  Ly — my  Wog, 

My  graceful  Polly  Wog  ; 
Oh,  tarry  not,  beloved  one  ! 

My  precious  Polly  Wog  !" 

Just  then  away  went  clouds,  and  there 

A  sitting  on  the  log — 
The  other  end  I  mean — the  moon 

Showed  angry  Polly  Wog. 

Her  small  eyes  flashed,  she  swelled  until 

She  looked  almost  a  frog  ; 
"  How  dare  you,  sir,  call  me,"  she  asked, 

"  Your  precious  Polly  Wog? 

"  Why,  one  would  think  you'  d  spent  your  life 

In  some  low,  muddy  bog. 
I'd  have  you  know — to  strange  young  men 
My  name's  Miss  Mary  Wog." 

One  wild,  wild  laugh  that  tree-toad  gave, 

And  tumbled  off  the  log, 
And  on  the  ground  he  kicked  and  screamed, 

"  Oh,  Mary,  Mary  Wog. 


158  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Oh,  May  !  oh,  Ry— oh,  Wog  ! 
Oh,  proud  Miss  Mary  Wog  ! 
Oh,  goodness  gracious  !  what  a  joke  1 
Hurrah  for  Mary  Wog  I" 


"KISS  PKETTY  POLL!" 

BY   MABY    D.    BBINE. 

"  Kiss  Pretty  Poll !"  the  parrot  screamed, 

And  "  Pretty  Poll,"  repeated  I, 
The  while  I  stole  a  merry  glance 

Across  the  room  all  on  the  sly, 
Where  some  one  plied  her  needle  fast, 

Demurely  by  the  window  sitting  ; 
But  I  beheld  upon  her  cheek 

A  multitude  of  blushes  flitting. 

"  Kiss  Pretty  Poll,"  the  parrot  coaxed  : 

"  I  would,  but  dare  not  try,"  I  said, 
And  stole  another  glance  to  see 

How  some  one  drooped  her  golden  head, 
And  sought  for  something  on  the  floor 

(The  loss  was  only  feigned,  I  knew) — 
And  still,  "  Kiss  Poll,"  the  parrot  screamed, 

The  very  thing  I  longed  to  do. 

But  some  one  turned  to  me  at  last, 

"  Please,  won't  you  keep  that  parrot  still?" 
"  Why,  yes,"  said  I,  "at  least — you  see 

If  you  will  let  me,  dear,  I  will." 
And  so— well,  never  mind  the  rest  ; 

But  some  one  said  it  was  a  shame 
To  take  advantage  just  because 

A  foolish  parrot  bore  her  name. 

— Harper's  Weekly. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  159 

THANKSGIVING-DAY  (THEN  AND  NOW). 

BY   MAKT   D.    BRINE. 

Thanksgiving-day,  a  year  ago, 

A  bachelor  was  I, 
Free  as  the  winds  that  whirl  and  blow, 

Or  clouds  that  sail  on  high  : 
I  smoked  my  meerschaum  blissfully, 

And  tilted  back  my  chair, 
And  on  the  mantel  placed  my  feet, 

For  who  would  heed  or  care  ? 

The  fellows  gathered  in  my  room 

For  many  an  hour  of  fun, 
Or  I  would  meet  them  at  the  club 

For  cards,  till  night  was  done. 
I  came  or  went  as  pleased  me  best, 

Myself  the  first  and  last. 
One  year  ago  !    Ah,  can  it  be 

That  freedom's  age  is  past? 

Now,  here's  a  note  just  come  from  Fred  : 

"  Old  fellow,  will  you  dine 
With  me  to-day  ?  and  meet  the  boys, 

A  jolly  number — nine  V" 
Ah,  Fred  is  quite  as  free  to-day 

As  just  a  year  ago, 
And  ignorant,  happily,  I  may  say, 

Of  things  I've  learned  to  know. 

I'd  like,  yes,  if  the  truth  were  known, 

I'd  like  to  join  the  boys, 
But  then  a  Benedick  must  learn 

To  cleave  to  other  joys. 
So,  here's  my  answer  :  "  Fred,  old  chum, 

I  much  regret — oh,  pshaw  ! 
To  tell  the  truth,  I've  got  to  dine 

With— my  dear  mother-in-law  /" 

— Harper's  Weekly. 


160  THE    WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

CONCERNING  MOSQUITOES. 

Feelingly  Dedicated  to  Jktir  Discounted  BiU*. 

BY   MISS   ANNA   A.    GOEDON. 

Skeeters  have  the  reputation 
Of  continuous  application 
To  their  poisonous  profession  ; 
Never  missing  nightly  session, 
Wearing  out  your  life's  existence 
By  their  practical  persistence. 

Would  I  had  the  power  to  veto 
Bills  of  every  mosquito  ; 
Then  I'd  pass  a  peaceful  summer, 
With  no  small  nocturnal  hummer 
Feasting  on  my  circulation, 
For  his  regular  potation. 

Oh,  that  rascally  mosquito  ! 
He's  a  fellow  you  must  see  to  ; 
Which  you  can't  do  if  you're  napping, 
But  must  evermore  be  slapping 
Quite  promiscuous  on  your  features  ; 
For  you'll  seldom  hit  the  creatures. 

But  the  thing  most  aggravating 

Is  the  cool  and  calculating 

Way  in  which  he  tunes  his  harpstring 

To  the  melody  of  sharp  sting  ; 

Then  proceeds  to  serenade  you, 

And  successfully  evade  you. 

When  a  skeeter  gets  through  stealing. 
He  sails  upward  to  the  ceiling, 
Where  he  sits  in  deep  reflection 
How  he  perched  on  your  complexion, 
Filled  with  solid  satisfaction 
At  results  of  his  extraction. 


HCMOKOUS    POEMS.  161 

Would  you  know,  in  this  connection, 

How  you  may  secure  protection 

For  yourself  and  city  cousins 

From  these  bites  and  from  these  buzzin's  ? 

Show  your  sense  by  quickly  getting 

For  each  window — skeeter  netting. 

THE   STILTS  OF  GOLD. 

BY  METTA  VICTORIA  VICTOB. 

Mrs.  Mackerel  sat  in  her  little  room, 

Back  of  her  husband's  grocery  store, 
Trying  to  see  through  the  evening  gloom, 

To  finish  the  baby's  pinafore. 
She  stitched  away  with  a  steady  hand, 

Though  her  heart  was  sore,  to  the  very  core, 
To  think  of  the  troublesome  little  Taand, 

(There  were  seven,  or  more), 
And  the  trousers,  frocks,  and  aprons  they  wore, 
Made  and  mended  by  her  alone. 
"  Slave,  slave  !"  she  said,  in  a  mournful  tone  ; 
"  And  let  us  slave,  and  contrive,  and  fret, 
I  don't  suppose  we  shall  ever  get 
A  little  home  which  is  all  our  own, 
With  my  own  front  door 
Apart  from  the  store, 
And  the  smell  of  fish  and  tallow  no  more." 

These  words  to  herself  she  sadly  spoke, 

Breaking  the  thread  from  the  last-set  stitch, 
When  Mackerel  into  her  presence  broke — 

"Wife,  we're — we're— we're,  wife,  we're — we're  rich,/" 
"  We  rich  !  ha,  ha  !  I'd  like  to  see  ; 
I'll  pull  your  hair  if  you're  fooling  me." 
"  Oh,  don't,  love,  don't  !  the  letter  is  here — 
You  can  read  the  news  for  yourself,  my  dear. 
The  one  who  sent  you  that  white  crape  shawl- 
There' 11  be  no  end  to  our  gold — he's  dead  ; 


162  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

You  know  you  always  would  call  him  stingy, 

Because  he  didn't  invite  us  to  Injy  ; 
And  I  am  his  only  heir,  'tis  said. 
A  million  of  pounds,  at  the  very  least, 

And  pearls  and  diamonds,  likely,  beside  !" 
Mrs.  Mackerel's  spirits  rose  like  yeast — 

"  How  lucky  I  married  you,  Mac,"  she  cried. 
Then  the  two  broke  forth  into  frantic  glee. 

A  customer  hearing  the  strange  commotion, 
Peeped  into  the  little  back-room,  and  he 

Was  seized  with  the  very  natural  notion 
That  the  Mackerel  family  had  gone  insane  ; 
So  he  ran  away  with  might  and  main. 

Mac  shook  his  partner  by  both  her  hands  ; 

They  dance,  they  giggle,  they  laugh,  they  stare  ; 
And  now  on  his  head  the  grocer  stands, 

Dancing  a  jig  with  his  feet  in  air — 
Eemarkable  feat  for  a  man  of  his  age, 
Who  never  had  danced  upon  any  stage 
But  the  High-Bridge  stage,  when  he  set  on  top, 
And  whose  green-room  had  been  a  green-grocer's  shop. 
But  that  Mrs.  Mac  should  perform  so  well 
Is  not  very  strange,  if  the  tales  they  tell 
Of  her  youthful  days  have  any  foundation. 

But  let  that  pass  with  her  former  life — 

An  opera-girl  may  make  a  good  wife, 
If  she  happens  to  get  such  a  nice  situation. 

A  million  pounds  of  solid  gold 

One  would  have  thought  would  have  crushed  them  dead  ; 
But  dear  they  bobbed,  and  courtesied,  and  rolled 

Like  a  couple  of  corks  to  a  plummet  of  lead. 
'Twas  enough  the  soberest  fancy  to  tickle 
To  see  the  two  Mackerels  in  such  a  pickle  ! 
It  was  three  o'clock  when  they  got  to  bed  ; 
Even  then  through  Mrs.  Mackerel's  head 
Such  gorgeous  dreams  went  whirling  away, 
"  Like  a  Catherine-wheel,"  she  declared  next  day, 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  163 


"  That  her  brain  seemed  made  of  sparkles  of  fire 
Shot  off  in  spokes,  with  a  ruby  tire." 

Mrs.  Mackerel  had  ever  been 

One  of  the  upward-tending  kind, 
Regarded  by  husband  and  by  kin 
As  a  female  of  very  ambitious  mind. 
It  had  fretted  her  long  and  fretted  her  sore 
To  live  in  the  rear  of  the  grocery-store. 
And  several  times  she  was  heard  to  say 
She  would  sell  her  soul  for  a  year  and  a  day 
To  the  King  of  Brimstone,  Fire,  and  Pitch, 
For  the  power  and  pleasure  of  being  rich. 

Now  her  ambition  had  scope  to  work — 

Riches,  they  say,  are  a  burden  at  best  ; 
Her  onerous  burden  she  did  not  shirk, 

But  carried  it  all  with  commendable  zest ; 
Leaving  her  husband  with  nothing  in  life 
But  to  smoke,  eat,  drink,  and  obey  his  wife. 
She  built  a  house  with  a  double  front-door, 

A  marble  house  in  the  modern  style, 
With  silver  planks  in  the  entry  floor, 

And  carpets  of  extra-magnificent  pile. 
And  in  the  hall,  in  the  usual  manner, 
"  A  statue,"  she  said,  "  of  the  chased  Diana  ; 
Though  who  it  was  chased  her,  or  whether  they 
Caught  her  or  not,  she  could,  really,  not  say." 
A  carriage  with  curtains  of  yellow  satin— 
A  coat-of-arms  with  these  rare  devices  : 
"  A  mackerel  sky  and  the  starry  Pisces — " 
And  underneath,  in  the  purest  fish-latin, 
If  fishibus  flyabus 
They  may  reach  the  skyabus  ! 

Yet  it  was  not  in  common  affairs  like  these 
She  showed  her  original  powers  of  mind  ; 

Her  soul  was  fired,  her  ardor  inspired, 
To  stand  apart  from  the  rest  of  mankind  ; 


164:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  To  be  A  No.  one,"  her  husband  said  ; 
At  which  she  turned  very  angrily  red, 
For  she  couldn't  endure  the  remotest  hint 
Of  the  grocery-store,  and  the  mackerels  in't. 
Weeks  and  months  she  plotted  and  planned 

To  raise  herself  from  the  common  level  ; 
Apart  from  even  the  few  to  stand 

Who'd  hundreds  of  thousands  on  which  to  revel. 
Her  genius,  at  last,  spread  forth  its  wings — 
Stilts,  golden  stilts,  are  the  very  things — 
"I'll  walk  on  stilts,"  Mrs.  Mackerel  cried, 
In  the  height  of  her  overtowering  pride. 
Her  husband  timidly  shook  his  head  ; 
But  she  did  not  care—"  For  why,"  as  she  said, 
"  Should  the  owner  of -ciore  than  a  million  pounds 
Be  going  the  rotinds 
On  the  very  same  grounds 
As  those  low  people,  she  couldn't  tell  who, 
They  might  keep  a  shop,  for  all  she  knew." 

She  had  a  pair  of  the  articles  made, 
Of  solid  gold,  gorgeously  overlaid 
With  every  color  of  precious  stone 
Which  ever  flashed  in  the  Indian  zone. 
She  privately  practised  many  a  day 

Before  she  ventured  from  home  at  all  ; 
She  had  lost  her  girlish  skill,  and  they  say 

That  she  suffered  many  a  fearful  fall  ; 
But  pride  is  stubborn,  and  she  was  bound 
On  her  golden  stilts  to  go  around, 
Three  feet,  at  least,  from  the  plebeian  ground. 

'Twas  an  exquisite  day, 

In  the  month  of  May, 
That  the  stilts  came  out  for  a  promenade  ; 

Their  first  entree 

Was  made  on  the  shilling  side  of  Broadway  : 
The  carmen  whistled,  the  boys  went  mad, 
The  omnibus-drivers  their  horses  stopped. 
The  chestnut-roaster  his  chestnuts  dropped, 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  165 

The  popper  of  corn  no  longer  popped  ; 
The  daintiest  dandies  deigned  to  stare, 
And  even  the  heads  of  women  fair 
Were  turned  by  the  vision  meeting  them  there. 
The  stilts  they  sparkled  and  flashed  and  shone 
Like  the  tremulous  lights  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Crimson  and  yellow  and  sapphire  and  green, 
Bright  as  the  rainbows  in  summer  seen  ; 
While  the  lady  she  strode  along  between 
With  a  majesty  too  supremely  serene 
For  anything  but  an  American  queen. 
A  lady  with  jewels  superb  as  those, 
And  wearing  such  very  expensive  clothes, 
Might  certainly  do  whatever  she  chose  ! 
And  thus,  in  despite  of  the  jeering  noise. 
And  the  frantic  delight  of  the  little  boys, 

The  stilts  were  a  very  decided  success. 
The  creme  de  la  crane  paid  profoundest  attention, 

The  merchants'  clerks  bowed  in  such  wild  excess, 
When  she  entered  their  shops,  that  they  strained  their  spines, 
And  afterward  went  into  rapid  declines. 
The  papers,  next  day,  gave  her  nattering  mention  : 
"  The  wife  of  our  highly-esteemed  fellow-citizen, 

A  Mackerel,  of  Codfish  Square,  in  this  city, 
Scorning  French  fashions,  herself  has  hit  on  one 

So  very  piquant  and  stylish  and  pretty, 
We  trust  our  fair  friends  will  consider  it  treason 
Not  to  walk  upon  stilts,  by  the  close  of  the  season." 

Mrs.  Mackerel,  now,  was  never  seen 

Out  of  her  chamber,  day  or  night, 
Unless  her  stilts  were  aL>ng — her  mien 

Was  very  imposing  from  such  a  height, 

It  imposed  upon  many  a  dazzled  wight, 
Who  snuffed  the  perfume  floating  down 
From  the  rustling  folds  of  her  gorgeous  gown, 
But  never  could  smell  through  these  bouquets 
The  fishy  odor  of  former  days. 


166  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

She  went  on  her  golden  stilts  to  pray, 

Which  never  became  her  better  than  then, 
When  her  murmuring  lips  were  heard  to  say, 

"  Thank  God,  I  am  not  as  my  fellow -men  !" 
Her  pastor  loved  as  a  pastor  might — 

His  house  that  was  built  on  a  golden  rock  ; 
He  pointed  it  out  as  a  shining  light 

To  the  lesser  lambs  of  his  fleecy  flock. 
The  stilts  were  a  help  to  the  church,  no  doubt, 

They  kindled  its  self-expiring  embers, 
So  that  before  the  season  was  out 

It  gained  a  dozen  excellent  members. 

Mrs.  Mackerel  gave  a  superb  soiree, 

Standing  on  stilts  to  receive  her  guests  ; 
The  gas-lights  mimicked  the  glowing  day 

So  well,  that  the  birds,  in  their  flowery  nests, 
Almost  burst  their  beautiful  breasts, 
Trilling  away  their  musical  stories 
In  Mrs.  Mackerel's  conservatories. 
She  received  on  stilts  ;  a  distant  bow 

Was  all  the  loftiest  could  attain- 
Though  some  of  her  friends  she  did  allow 

To  kiss  the  hem  of  her  jewelled  train. 
One  gentleman  screamed  himself  quite  hoarse 
Kequesting  her  to  dance  ;  which,  of  course, 
Couldn't  be  done  on  stilts,  as  she 
Halloed  down  to  him  rather  scornfully. 

The  fact  is,  when  Mackerel  kept  a  shop, 

His  wife  was  very  fond  of  a  hop, 

And  now,  as  the  muhic  swelled  and  rose, 

She  felt  a  tingling  in  her  toes, 

A  restless,  tickling,  funny  sensation 

Which  didn't  agree  with  her  exaltation. 

When  the  maddened  music  was  at  its  height* 
And  the  waltz  was  wildest — behold,  a  sight ! 
The  stilts  began  to  hop  and  twirl 
Like  the  saucy  feet  of  a  ballet-girl, 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  167 


And  their  haughty  owner,  through  the  air, 
Was  spin,  spin,  spinning  everywhere. 
Everybody  got  out  of  the  way 
To  give  the  dangerous  stilts  fair  play. 

In  every  corner,  at  every  door, 
With  faces  looking  like  unfilled  blanks, 
They  watched  the  stilts  at  their  airy  pranks, 

Giving  them,  unrequested,  the  floor. 

They  never  had  glittered  so  bright  before  ; 
The  light  it  flew  in  flashing  splinters 
Away  from  those  burning,  revolving  centres  ; 
While  the  gems  on  the  lady's  flying  skirts 
Gave  out  their  light  in  jets  and  spirts. 
Poor  Mackerel  gazed  in  mute  dismay 
At  this  unprecedented  display. 
"  Oh,  stop,  love,  stop  !"  he  cried  at  last ; 
But  she  only  flew  more  wild  and  fast, 
While  the  flutes  and  fiddles,  bugle  and  dram, 
Followed  as  if  their  time  had  come. 

She  went  at  such  a  bewildering  pace 
Nobody  saw  the  lady's  face, 
But  only  a  ring  of  emerald  light 
From  the  crown  she  wore  on  that  fatal  night. 
Whether  the  stilts  were  propelling  her, 
Or  she  the  stilts,  none  could  aver. 
Around  and  around  the  magnificent  hall 
Mrs.  Mackerel  danced  at  her  own  grand  ball. 

"  As  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  inclined  ;" 
This  must  have  been  a  case  in  kind. 
"  What's  in  the  blood  will  sometimes  show — " 
'Kound  and  around  the  wild  stilts  go. 

It  had  been  whispered  many  a  time 
That  when  poor  Mack  was  in  his  prime 

Keeping  that  little  retail  store, 
He  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  ballet-girl, 
Who  gave  up  fame's  entrancing  whirl 

To  be  shis  own,  and  the  world's  no  mo*e. 


168  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

She  made  him  a  faithful,  prudent  wife — 
Ambitious,  however,  all  her  life. 
Could  it  be  that  the  soft,  alluring  waltz 

Had  carried  her  back  to  a  former  age, 
Making  her  memory  play  her  false, 

Till  she  dreamed  herself  on  the  gaudy  stage  ? 
Her  crown  a  tinsel  crown— her  guests 
The  pit  that  gazes  with  praise  and  jests  ? 

"  Pride,"  they  say,  "  must  have  a  fall — " 
Mrs.  Mackerel  was  very  proud — 

And  now  she  danced  at  her  own  grand  ball, 
While  the  music  swelled  more  fast  and  loud. 

The  gazers  shuddered  with  mute  affright, 
For  the  stilts  burned  now  with  a  bluish  light, 
While  a  glimmering,  phosphorescent  glow 
Did  out  of  the  lady's  garments  flow. 
And  what  was  that  very  peculiar  smell  ? 
Fish,  or  brimstone  ?  no  one  could  tell. 
Stronger  and  stronger  the  odor  grew, 
And  the  stilts  and  the  lady  burned  more  blue  ; 
"Bound  and  around  the  long  saloon, 
While  Mackerel  gazed  in  a  partial  swoon, 
She  approached  the  throng,  or  circled  from  it, 
With  a  flaming  train  like  the  last  great  comet ; 

Till  at  length  the  crowd 

All  groaned  aloud. 

For  her  exit  she  made  from  her  own  grand  ball 
Out  of  the  window,  stilts  and  all. 

None  of  the  guests  can  really  say 

How  she  looked  when  she  vanished  away. 

Some  declare  that  she  carried  sail 

On  a  flying  fish  with  a  lambent  tail  ; 

And  some  are  sure  she  went  out  of  the  room 

Biding  her  stilts  like  a  witch  a  broom, 

While  a  phosphorent  odor  followed  her  track  : 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Ihe  never  came  back. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  169 

Since  then,  her  friends  of  the  gold-fish  fry 

Are  in  a  state  of  unpleasant  suspense, 
Afraid,  that  unless  they  unselfishly  try 

To  make  better  use  of  their  dollars  and  sense 
To  chasten  their  pride,  and  their  manners  mend, 
They  may  meet  a  similar  shocking  end. 

— Cosmopolitan  Art  Journal.  - 

JUST  SO. 

BY   METTA   YICTOBIA   VICTOE. 

A  youth  and  maid,  one  winter  night, 

Were  sitting  in  the  corner  ; 
His  name,  we're  told,  was  Joshua  White, 

And  hers  was  Patience  Warner. 

Not  much  the  pretty  maiden  said, 

Beside  the  young  man  sitting  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed  a  rosy  red, 

Her  eyes  bent  on  her  knitting. 

Nor  could  he  guess  what  thoughts  of  him 

Were  to  her  bosom  flocking, 
As  "her  fair  fingers,  swift  and  slim, 

Flew  round  and  round  the  stocking. 

While,  as  for  Joshua,  bashful  youth, 

His  words  grew  few  and  fewer  ; 
Though  all  the  time,  to  tell  the  truth, 

His  chair  edged  nearer  to  her. 

Meantime  her  ball  of  yarn  gave  out, 

She  knit  so  fast  and  steady  ; 
And  he  must  give  his  aid,  no  doubt, 

To  get  another  ready. 

He  held  the  skein  ;  of  course  the  thread 

Got  tangled,  snarled  and  twisted  ; 
"  Have  Patience  !"  cried  the  artless  maid, 

To  him  who  her  assisted. 


170  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Good  chance  was  this  for  tongue-tied  churl 

To  shorten  all  palaver  ; 
"  Have  Patience  !' '  cried  he,  "  dearest  girl ! 

And  may  I  really  have  her  ?" 

The  deed  was  done  ;  no  more,  that  night, 

Clicked  needles  in  the  corner  : — 
And  she  is  Mrs.  Joshua  White 

That  once  was  Patience  Warner. 

THE   INVENTOR'S   WIFE. 

BY    E.    T.    CORBETT. 

It's  easy  to  talk  of  the  patience  of  Job.     Humph  !  Job  had  no  thin*  to 

try  him  ; 
Ef  he'd  been  married  to  'Bijah  Brown,  folks  wouldn't  have  dared  come 

nigh  him. 
Trials,  indeed  !    Now  I'll  tell  you  what — ef  you  want  to  be  sick  of  your 

life, 

Jest  come  and  change  places  with  me  a  spell,  for  I'm  an  inventor's  wife. 
And  sech  inventions  !  I'm  never  sure  when  I  take  up  my  coffee-pot, 
That  'Bijah  hain't  been  "  improvin'  "  it,  and  it  mayn't  go  off  like  a  shot. 
Why,  didn't  he  make  me  a  cradle  once  that  would  keep  itself  a-rockin', 
And  didn't  it  pitch  the  baby  out,  and  wasn't  his  head  bruised  shockin'  ? 
And  there  was  his  "  patent  peeler,"  too,  a  wonderful  thing  I'll  say  ; 
But  it  hed  one  fault— it  never  stopped  till  the  apple  was  peeled  away. 
As  for  locks  and  clocks,  and  mowin'  machines,  and  reapers,  and  all  such 

trash, 

Why,  'Bijah' s  invented  heaps  of  them,  but  they  don't  bring  in  no  cash  ! 
Law  !  that  don't  worry  him — not  at  all  ;  he's  the  aggravatinest  man — 
He'll  set  in  his  little  workshop  there,  and  whistle  and  think  and  plan, 
Inventin'  a  Jews-harp  to  go  by  steam,  or  a  new-fangled  powder-horn, 
While  the  children's  goin'  barefoot  to  school,  and  the  weeds  is  chokin' 

our  corn. 

When  'Bijah  and  me  kep'  company,  he  wasn't  like  this,  you  know  ; 
Our  folks  all  thought  he  was  dreadful  smart— but  that  was  years  ago. 
He  was  handsome  as  any  pictur'  then,  and  he  had  such  a  glib,  bright 

way — 
I  never  thought  that  a  time  would  come  when  I'  d  rue  my  weddin'-day  ; 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  171 

But  when  I've  been  forced  to  chop  the  wood,  and  tend  to  the  farm  beside, 
And  look  at  'Bijah  a-settin'  there,  I've  jest  dropped  down  and  cried. 
We  lost  the  hull  of  our  turnip  crop  while  he  was  inventin'  a  gun, 
But  I  counted  it  one  of  my  marcies  when  it  bust  before  'twas  done. 
So  he  turned  it  into  a  "  burglar  alarm."     It  ought  to  give  thieves  a 

fright — 

'Twould  scare  an  honest  man  out  of  his  wits,  ef  he  sot  it  off  at  night. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  ef  'Bijah' s  crazy,  he  does  such  curious  things. 
'Have  I  told  you  about  his  bedstead  yit?     'Twas  full  of  wheels  and 

springs  ; 

It  hed  a  key  to  wind  it  up,  and  a  clock-face  at  the  head  ; 
All  you  did  was  to  tiirn  them  hands,  and  at  any  hour  you  said 
That  bed  got  up  and  shook  itself,  and  bounced  you  on  the  floor, 
And  then  shet  up,  jest  like  a  box,  so  you  couldn't  sleep  any  more. 
Wa'al,  'Bijah  he  fixed  it  all  complete,  and  he  sot  it  at  half-past  five, 
But  he  hadn't  more  'n  got  into  it,  when— dear  me  !  sakes  alive  ! 
Them  wheels  began  to  whizz  and  whirr  !     I  heard  a  fearful  snap, 
And  there  was  that  bedstead  with  'Bijah  inside  shet  up  jest  like  a  trap  ! 
I  screamed,  of  course,  but  'twant  no  use.     Then  I  worked  that  hull  long 

night 

A-tryin'  to  open  the  pesky  thing.     At  last  I  got  in  a  fright  : 
I  couldn't  hear  his  voice  inside,  and  I  thought  he  might  be  dyin', 
So  I  took  a  crowbar  and  smashed  it  in.     There  was  'Bijah  peacefully 

lyin', 

Inventin'  a  way  to  git  out  agin.     That  was  all  very  well  to  say, 
But  I  don't  believe  he'd  have  found  it  out  if  I'd  left  him  in  all  day. 
Now,  since  I've  told  you  my  story,  do  you  wonder  I'm  tired  of  life, 
Or  think  it  strange  I  often  wish  I  warn't  an  inventor's  wife  ? 


AN   UNKUFFLED   BOSOM. 
(Story  of  an  old  Woman  who  knew  Washington.) 

BY   LIZZIE    W.    CHAMPNET. 

An  aged  negress  at  her  door 

Is  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
Her  day  of  work  is  almost  o'er, 

Her  day  of  rest  begun. 


172  THE   WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Her  face  is  black  as  darke?t  night, 

Her  form  is  bent  and  thin, 
And  o'er  her  bony  visage  tight 

Is  stretched  her  wr.nkled  skin. 
Her  dress  is  scant  and  mean  ;  yet  still 

About  her  ebon  face 
There  flows  a  soft  and  creamy  frill 

Of  costly  Mechlin  lace. 
"What  means  the  contrast  strange  and  wide  ? 

Its  like  is  seldom  seen— 
A  pauper's  aged  face  beside 

The  laces  of  a  queen. 
Her  mien  is  stately,  proud,  and  high, 

And  yet  her  look  is  kind, 
And  Ihe  calm  light  within  her  eye 

Speaks  an  unruffled  mind. 
"  Dar  comes  anodder  ob  dem  tramps," 

She  mumbles  low  in  wrath, 
**  I  know  dose  sleek  Centennial  chaps 

Quick  as  dey  mounts  de  path. 
A-axing  ob  a  lady's  age 

I  tink  is  impolite, 
And  when  dey  gins  to  interview 

I  disremembers  quite. 
Dar  was  dat  spruce  photometer 

Dat  tried  to  take  my  head, 
And  Mr.  Squibbs,  de  porterer, 

Wrote  down  each  word  I  said. 
Six  hundred  years  I  fought  it  was, 

Or  else  it  was  sixteen — 
Yes  ;  I'd  shook  hands  wid  Washington 

And  likewise  General  Greene. 
I  tole  him  all  de  generals'  names 

Dar  ebber  was,  I  guess, 
From  General  Lee  and  La  Fayette 

To  General  Distress. 
Den  dar's  dem  high-flown  ladies 

My  old  tings  came  to  see  ; 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  173 

Wanted  to  buy  dem  some  heirlooms 

Of  real  Aunt  Tiquity. 
Says  I,  "  Dat  isn't  dis  chile's  name, 

Dey  calls  me  Auntie  Scraggs," 
And  den  I  axed  dem,  by  de  pound 

How  much  dey  gabe  for  rags  ? 
De  missionary  had  de  mose 

Insurance  of  dem  all ; 
He  tole  me  I  was  ole,  and  said, 

Laabes  had  dar  time  to  fall. 
He  simply  wished  to  ax,  he  said, 

As  pastor  and  as  friend, 
If  wid  unruffled  bosom  I 

Approached  my  latter  end. 
Now  how  he  knew  dat  story  I 

Should  mightily  like  to  know. 

I  'clar  to  goodness,  Massa  Guy, 

If  dat  ain't  really  you  ! 
You  say  dat  in  your  wash  I  sent 

You  only  one  white  vest  ; 
And  as  you'se  passin'  by  you  fought 

You'd  call  and  get  de  rest. 
Now,  Massa  Guy,  about  your  shirts, 

At  least,  it  seems  to  me 
Dat  you  is  more  particular 

Dan  what  you  used  to  be. 
Your  family  pride  is  stiff  as  starch, 

Your  blood  is  mighty  blue — 
I  nebber  spares  de  indigo 

To  make  your  shirts  so,  too. 
I  uses  candle  ends,  and  wax, 

And  satin  gloss  and  paints, 
Until  your  wristbands  shine  like  to 

De  pathway  ob  de  saints. 
But  when  a  gemman  sends  to  me 

Eight  white  vests  eberry  week, 
A  stain  ob  har-oil  on  each  one, 

I  tinks  it's  time  to  speak. 


174:  THE   WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

When  snarled  around  a  button  dar's 

A  golden  bar  or  so, 
Dat  young  man's  going  to  be  wed, 

Or  someting's  wrong,  I  know. 
Yoii  needn't  laugh,  and  turn  it  off 

By  axing  'bout  my  cap  ; 
You  didn't  use  to  know  nice  lace, 

And  never  cared  a  snap 
What  'twas  a  lady  wore.     But  folks 

Wid  teaching  learn  a  lot, 
And  dey  do  say  Miss  Bella  buys 

De  best  dat's  to  be  got. 
But  if  you  really  want  to  know, 

I  don't  mind  telling  you 
Jus'  how  I  come  by  dis  yere  lace — 

It's  cur'us,  but  it's  true. 
My  mother  washed  for  Washington 

When  I  warn't  more'n  dat  tall  ; 
I  cut  one  of  his  shirt-frills  off 

To  dress  my  corn-cob  doll  ; 
And  when  de  General  saw  de  shirt, 

He  jus'  was  mad  enough 
To  tink  he  got  to  hold  review 

Widout  his  best  Dutch  ruff. 
Ma'am  said  she  'lowed  it  was  de  calf 

Dat  had  done  chawed  it  off  ; 
But  when  de  General  heard  dat  ar, 

He  answered  with  a  scoff  ; 
He  said  de  marks  warn't  don'  of  teef, 

But  plainly  dose  ob  shears  ; 
An'  den  he  showed  her  to  de  do' 

And  cuffed  me  on  ye  years. 
And  when  my  ma'am  arribed  at  home 

She  stretched  me  "cross  her  lap, 
Den  took  de  lace  away  from  me 

An'  sewed  it  on  her  cap. 
And  when  I  dies  I  hope  dat  dey 

Wid  it  my  shroud  will  trim. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  175 

Den  when  we  meets  on  Judgment  Day, 

I'll  gib  it  back  to  him. 
So  dat's  my  story,  Massa  Guy, 

Maybe  I's  little  wit  ; 
But  I  has  lamed  to,  when  I'm  wrong, 

Make  a  clean  breast  ob  it. 
Den  keep  a  conscience  smooth  and  white 

(You  can't  if  much  you  flirt), 
And  an  unruffled  bosom,  like 

De  General's  Sunday  shirt. 

HAT,  ULSTER   AND  ALL. 

BY  CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 

John  Verity's  Experience. 

I  saw  the  congregation  rise, 
And  in  it,  to  my  great  surprise, 

A  Kossuth-covered  head. 
I  looked  and  looked,  and  looked  again, 
To  make  quite  sure  my  sight  was  plain, 

Then  to  myself  I  said  : 

That  fellow  surely  is  a  Jew, 

To  whom  the  Christian  faith  is  new, 

Nor  is  it  strange,  indeed, 
If  used  to  wear  his  hat  in  church, 
His  manners  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

Upon  a  change  of  creed. 

Joining  my  friend  on  going  out, 
Conjecture  soon  was  put  to  rout 

By  smothered  laugh  of  his  : 
Ha  !  ha  !  too  good,  too  good,  no  Jew, 
Dear  fellow,  but  Miss  Moll  Carew, 

Good  Christian  that  she  is  ! 

Bad  blunder  !  all  I  have  to  say, 
It  is  a  most  unchristian  way 
To  rig  Miss  Moll  Carew — 


176  THE    WIT   OF   WOMEN, 

She  has  my  hat,  my  cut  of  hair, 
Just  such  an  ulster  as  I  wear, 

And  heaven  knows  what  else,  too. 


AUCTION  EXTRAORDINARY. 

BY   LUCKETIA   DAVIDSON. 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 

And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers  ; 

My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  meter, 

I'm  sure  I  ne  'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter  : 

It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made 

That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid  ; 

And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 

The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry. 

The  bachelors  grumbled  and  said  'twas  no  use — 

'Twas  horrid  injustice  and  horrid  abuse, 

And  declared  that  to  save  their  own  hearts'  blood  from  spilling, 

Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 

But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 

So  they  set  all  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue  : 

A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 

To  rattle  his  bell  and  a  trumpet  to  blow, 

And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 

"  Ho  !  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  to-day  !" 

And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town, 

Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 

From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red  and  pale, 

Of  every  description,  all  nocked  to  the  sale. 

The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labor  began, 

And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 

"  How  much  for  a  bachelor?     Who  wants  to  buy?" 

In  a  twink,  every  maiden  responsed,  "  I — I !" 

In  short,  at  a  highly  extravagant  price, 

The  bachelors  all  were  sold  off  in  a  trice  : 

And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 

Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS.  177 

A  APELE   FOR   ARE   TO   THE   SEXTANT. 

BY   ABABELLA    WILSON. 

0  Sextant  of  the  meetinouse  which  sweeps 
And  dusts,  or  is  supposed  to  !  and  makes  fiers, 
And  lites  the  gas,  and  sumtimes  leaves  a  screw  loose. 
In  which  case  it  smells  orful— wus  than  lampile  ; 
And  wrings  the  Bel  and  toles  it  when  men  dies 

To  the  grief  of  survivin'  pardners,  and  sweeps  paths, 

And  for  these  servaces  gits  $100  per  annum  ; 

Wich  them  that  thinks  deer  let  'em  try  it  ; 

Gittin  up  before  sturlite  in  all  wethers,  and 

Kindlin'  fiers  when  the  wether  is  as  cold 

As  zero,  and  like  as  not  green  wood  for  kindlins 

(I  wouldn't  be  hierd  to  do  it  for  no  sum)  ; 

But  o  Sextant  there  are  one  kermodity 

Wuth  more  than  gold  which  don't  cost  nuthin  ; 

Wuth  more  than  anything  except  the  Sole  of  man  ! 

1  mean  pewer  Are,  Sextant,  I  mean  pewer  Are  ! 

0  it  is  plenty  out  o'  dores,  so  plenty  it  doant  no 
What  on  airth  to  do  with  itself,  but  flize  about 
Scatterin  leaves  and  bloin  off  men's  hats  ; 

In  short  its  jest  as  free  as  Are  out  dores  ; 

But  O  Sextant  !  in  our  church  its  scarce  as  piety, 

Scarce  as  bankbills  when  ajunts  beg  for  mishuns,        ^ 

Which  sum  say  is  purty  often,  taint  nuthin  to  me, 

What  I  give  aint  nuthing  to  nobody  ;  but  0  Sextant  I 

You  shet  500  men  women  and  children 

Speshily  the  latter,  up  in  a  tite  place, 

Sum  has  bad  breths,  none  of  em  aint  too  sweet, 

Sum  is  fevery,  sum  is  scroflus,  sum  has  bad  teeth 

And  sum  haint  none,  and  sum  aint  over  clean  ; 

But  evry  one  of  em  brethes  in  and  out  and  in 

Say  50  times  a  minnet,  or  1  million  and  a  half  breths  an  hour  ; 

Now  how  long  will  a  church  full  of  are  last  at  that  rate  ? 

1  ask  you  ;  say  fifteen  minnets,  and  then  what's  to  be  did  ? 
Why  then  they  must  breth  it  all  over  agin, 

And  then  agin  and  so  on,  till  each  has  took  it  down 


ITS  THE   WIT    OF   WOMEN. 

At  least  ten  times  and  let  it  up  agin,  and  what's  more, 

The  same  individible  doant  have  the  privilege 

Of  breathin  his  own  are  and  no  one  else, 

Each  one  must  take  wotever  comes  to  him, 

O  Sexta,nt !  doant  you  know  our  lungs  is  belluses 

To  bio  the  fier  of  life  and  keep  it  from 

Going  out  :  und  how  can  bellusses  bio  without  wind  ? 

And  aint  wind  are  ?     I  put  it  to  your  konshens, 

Are  is  the  same  to  us  as  milk  to  babies, 

Or  water  is  to  fish,  or  pendlums  to  clox, 

Or  roots  and  airbs  unto  an  Injun  doctor, 

Or  little  pills  unto  an  omepath, 

Or  Boze  to  girls.     Are  is  for  us  to  brethe. 

What  signifize  who  preaches  ef  I  cant  brethe  ? 

What's  Pol  ?    What's  Pollus  to  sinners  who  are  ded  ? 

Ded  for  want  of  breth  !     Why  Sextant  when  we  dye 

Its  only  coz  we  cant  brethe  no  more — that's  all. 

And  now  O  Sextant  ?  let  me  beg  of  you 

To  let  a  little  are  into  our  cherch 

(Fewer  are  is  sertin  proper  for  the  pews)  ; 

And  dew  it  week  days  and  on  Sundays  tew — 

It  aint  much  trobble  —only  make  a  hoal, 

And  then  the  are  will  come  in  of  itself 

(It  love  to  come  in  where  it  can  git  warm). 

And  O  how  it  will  rouze  the  people  up 

And  sperrit  up  the  preacher,  and  stop  garps 

And  yorns  and  fijits  as  effectool 

As  wind  on  the  dry  boans  the  Profit  tels  of. 

— Christian  Weekly. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

GOOD-NATURED    SATIKE. 

WOMEN  show  their  sense  of  humor  in  ridiculing  the  foi- 
bles of  their  own  sex,  as  Miss  Carlotta  Perry  seeing  the 
danger  of  "  higher  education,"  and  Helen  Gray  Cone 
laughing  over  the  exaggerated  ravings  and  meanings  of  a 
stage-struck  girl,  or  the  very  one-sided  sermon  of  a  senti- 
mental goose. 

A  MODEKN   MINERVA. 

BY   CABLOTTA   PEERY. 

'Twas  the  height  of  the  gay  season,  and  I  cannot  tell  the  reason, 

But  at  a  dinner  party  given  by  Mrs.  Major  Thwing 
It  became  my  pleasant  duty  to  take  out  a  famous  beauty — 

The  prettiest  woman  present.     I  was  happy  as  a  king. 

Her  dress  beyond  a  question  was  an  artist's  best  creation  ; 

A  miracle  of  loveliness  was  she  from  crown  to  toe. 
Her  smile  was  sweet  as  could  be,  her  voice  just  as  it  should  be — 

Not  high,  and  sharp,  and  wiry,  but  musical  and  low. 

Her  hair  was  soft  and  flossy,  golden,  plentiful  and  glossy  ; 

Her  eyes,  so  blue  and  sunny,  shone  with  every  inward  grace  ; 
I  could  see  that  every  fellow  in  the  room  was  really  yellow 

With  jealousy,  and  wished  himself  that  moment  in  my  place. 

As  the  turtle  soup  we  tasted,  like  a  gallant  man  I  hasted 
To  pay  some  pretty  tribute  to  this  muslin,  silk,  and  gauze  ; 

But  she  turned  and  softly  asked  me— and  I  own  the  question  tasked  me—- 
What were  my  fixed  opinions  on  the  present  Suffrage  laws. 


180  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

I  admired  a  lovely  blossom  resting  on  her  gentle  bosom  ; 

The  remark  I  thought  a  safe  one — I  could  hardly  made  a  worse  ; 
With  a  smile  like  any  Venus,  she  gave  me  its  name  and  genus, 

And  opened  very  calmly  a  botanical  discourse. 

But  I  speedily  recovered.     As  her  taper  fingers  hovered, 

Like  a  tender  benediction,  in  a  little  bit  of  fish, 
Further  to  impair  digestion,  she  brought  up  the  Eastern  Question. 

By  that  time  I  fully  echoed  that  other  fellow's  wish. 

And,  as  sure  as  I'm  a  sinner,  right  on  through  that  endless  dinner 

Did  she  talk  of  moral  science,  of  politics  and  law, 
Of  natural  selection,  of  Free  Trade  and  Protection, 

Till  I  came  to  look  upon  her  with  a  sort  of  solemn  awe. 

Just  to  hear  the  lovely  woman,  looking  more  divine  than  human, 
Talk  with  such  discrimination  of  Ingersoll  and  Cook, 

With  such  a  childish,  sweet  smile,  quoting  Huxley,  Mill,  and  Carlyle— 
It  was  quite  a  revelation— it  was  better  than  a  book. 

Chemistry  and  mathematics,  agriculture  and  chromatics, 

Music,  painting,  sculpture — she  knew  all  the  tricks  of  speech  ; 

Bas-relief  and  chiaroscuro,  and  at  last  the  Indian  Bureau — 
She  discussed  it  quite  serenely,  as'she  trifled  with  a  peach. 

I  have  seen  some  dreadful  creatures,  with  vinegary  features, 
With  their  fearful  store  of  learning  set  me  sadly  in  eclipse  ; 

But  I'm  ready  quite  to  swear  if  I  have  ever  heard  the  Tariff 
Or  the  Eastern  Question  settled  by  such  a  pair  of  lips. 

Never  saw  I  a  dainty  maiden  so  remarkably  o'  erladen 

From  lip  to  tip  of  finger  with  the  love  of  books  and  men  ; 

Quite  in  confidence  I  say  it,  and  I  trust  you'll  not  betray  it, 
But  I  pray  to  gracious  heaven  that  I  never  may  again. 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

THE   BALLAD   OF   CASSANDRA  BROWN. 

BY   HELEN   OKAY   CONE. 

Though  I  met  her  in  the  stammer,  when  one's  heart  lies  'round  at  ease, 

As  it  were  in  tennis  costume,  and  a  man's  not  hard  to  please  ; 

Yet  I  think  at  any  season  to  have  met  her  was  to  love, 

While  her  tones,  unspoiled,  unstudied,  had  the  softness  of  the  dove. 


GOOD-NATURED    SATIRE.  181 

At  request  she  read  us  poems,  in  a  nook  among  the  pines, 
And  her  artless  voice  lent  music  to  the  least  melodious  lines  ; 
Though  she  lowered  her  shadowing  lashes,  in  an  earnest  reader's  wise, 
Yet  we  caught  blue  gracious  glimpses  of  the  heavens  that  were  her  eyes. 

As  in  Paradise  I  listened.     Ah,  I  did  not  understand 
That  a  little  cloud,  no  larger  than  the  average  human  hand, 
Might,  as  stated  oft  in  fiction,  spread  into  a  sable  pall, 
When  she  said  that  she  should  study  elocution  in  the  fall. 

I  admit  her  earliest  efforts  were  not  in  the  Ercles  vein  : 
She  began  with  ' '  Lit-tle  Maaybel,  with  her  f aayce  against  the  paayne, 
And  the  beacon-light  a-trrremble  -"  which,  although  it  made  me  wince, 
Is  a  thing  of  cheerful  nature  to  the  things  she's  rendered  since. 

Having  learned  the  Soulful  Quiver,  she  acquired  the  Melting  Mo-o-an, 
And  the  way  she  gave  "  Young  Grayhead  "  would  have  liquefied  a  stone  -'. 
Then  the  Sanguinary  Tragic  did  her  energies  employ, 
And  she  tore  my  taste  to  tatters  when  she  slew  ' '  The  Polish  Boy. " 

It's  not  pleasant  for  a  fellow  when  the  jewel  of  his  soul 
Wades  through  slaughter  on  the  carpet,  while  her  orbs  in  frenzy  roll : 
What  was  I  that  I  should  murmur  ?     Yet  it  gave  me  grievous  pain 
When  she  rose  in  social  gatherings  and  searched  among  the  slain. 

I  was  forced  to  look  upon  her,  in  my  desperation  dumb  — 
Knowing  well  that  when  her  awful  opportunity  was  come 
She  would  give  us  battle,  murder,  sudden  death  at  very  least — 
As  a  skeleton  of  warning,  and  a  blight  upon  the  feast. 

Once,  ah  !  once  I  fell  a-dreaming  ;  some  one  played  a  polonaise 

I  associated  strongly  with  those  happier  August  days  ; 

And  I  mused,  "I'll  speak  this  evening,"  recent  pangs  forgotten  quite. 

Sudden  shrilled  a  scream  of  anguish  :  "  Curfew  SH^LL  not  ring  to-night !'" 

Ah,  that  sound  was  as  a  curfew,  quenching  rosy  warm  romance  ! 

Were  it  safe  to  wed  a  woman  one  so  oft  would  wish  in  France  ? 

Oh,  as  she  "  cull-imbed  !"   that  ladder,  swift  my  mounting  hope  came 

down. 
I  am  still  a  single  cynic  ;  she  is  still  Cassandra  Brown  ! 


182  THE  WIT  OF  WOMEN. 

THE  TENDER  HEART. 

BY   HELEN   OKAY   CONE. 

She  gazed  upon  the  burnished  brace 

Of  plump,  ruffed  grouse  he  showed  with  pride  •, 
Angelic  grief  was  in  her  face  : 

"  How  could  you  do  it,  dear?"  she  sighed. 
"  The  poor,  pathetic  moveless  wings  !" 

The  songs  all  hushed — "  Oh,  cruel  shame  !" 
Said  he,  "  The  partridge  never  sings," 

Said  she,  "  The  sin  is  quite  the  same." 

"  You  men  are  savage,  through  and  through, 

A  boy  is  always  bringing  in 
Some  string  of  birds'  eggs,  white  and  blue, 

Or  butterfly  upon  a  pin. 
The  angle-worm  in  anguish  dies, 

Impaled,  the  pretty  trout  to  tease — " 
"  My  own,  we  fish  for  trout  with  flies — " 

"  Don't  wander  from  the  question,  please." 

She  quoted  Burns's  "  Wounded  Hare," 

And  certain  burning  lines  of  Blake's, 
And  Rxiskin  on  the  fowls  of  air, 

And  Coleridge  on  the  water-snakes. 
At  Emerson's  "  Forbearance"  he 

Began  to  feel  his  will  benumbed  ; 
At  Browning's  "  Donald  "  utterly 

His  soul  surrendered  and  succumbed. 

*'  Oh,  gentlest  of  all  gentle  girls  ! 

He  thought,  beneath  the  blessed  sun  I" 
He  saw  her  lashes  hang  with  pearls, 

And  swore  to  give  away  his  gun. 
She  smiled  to  find  her  point  was  gained 

And  went,  with  happy  parting  words 
(He  subsequently  ascertained), 

To  trim  her  hat  with  humming  birds. 

— From  the  Century. 


GOOD-NATURED    SATIRE.  183 

A  dozen  others  equally  good  must  be  reserved '  for  that 
encyclopaedia  !  This  specimen  of  vers  de  societe  rivals 
Locker  or  Baker  : 


PLIGHTED:  A.D.  1874. 

BY   ALICE   WILLIAMS. 

"  Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought. 
Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one." 

NELLIE,  loquitur. 
Bless  my  heart !    You've  come  at  last, 

Awful  glad  to  see  you,  dear  ! 
Thought  you'd  died  or  something,  Belle — 

Such  an  age  since  you've  been  here  1 
My  engagement  ?     Gracious  !    Yes. 

Rumor's  hit  the  mark  this  time. 
And  the  victim  ?  Charley  Gray. 

Know  him,  don't  you?    Well,  he's  prtnw. 
Such  mustachios  !  splendid  style  ! 

Then  he's  not  so  horrid  fast— 
Waltzes  like  a  seraph,  too  ; 

Has  some  fortune — best  and  last. 
Love  him?    Nonsense.     Don't  be  "  soft ;" 

Pretty  much  as  love  now  goes  ; 
He's  devoted,  and  in  time 

I'll  get  used  to  him,  I  'spose. 
First  love  ?     Humbug.     Don't  talk  stuff  ! 

Bella  Brown,  don't  be  a  fool ! 
Next  you'd  rave  of  flames  and  darts, 

Like  a  chit  at  boarding-school  ; 
Don't  be  "  miffed."    I  talked  just  so 

Some  two  years  back.     Fact,  my  dear ! 
But  two  seasons  kill  romance, 

Leave  one's  views  of  life  quite  clear. 
Why,  if  Will  Latrobe  had  asked 

When  he  left  two  years  ago, 


184:  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

I'd  have  thrown  up  all  and  gone 

Out  to  Kansas,  do  you  know  ? 
Fancy  me  a  settler's  wife  ! 

Blest  escape,  dear,  was  it  not  ? 
Yes  ;  it's  hardly  in  my  line 

To  enact  "  Love  in  a  Cot." 
Well,  you  see,  I'd  had  my  swing, 

Been  engaged  to  eight  or  ten, 
Got  to  stop  some  time,  of  course, 

So  it  don't  much  matter  when. 
Auntie  hates  old  maids,  and  thinks 

Every  girl  should  marry  young — 
On  that  theme  my  whole  life  long 

I  have  heard  the  changes  sung. 
So,  ma  belle,  what  could   I  do  ? 

Charley  wants  a  stylish  wife. 
We'll  suit  well  enough,  no  fear, 

When  we  settle  down  for  life. 
But  for  love-staff  !     See  my  ring  ! 

Lovely,  isn'  t  it  ?     Solitaire. 
Nearly  made  Maud  Hinton  turn 

Green  with  envy  and  despair. 
Her's  ain't  half  so  nice,  you  see. 

Did  I  write  you,  Belle,  about 
How  she  tried  for  Charley,  till 

I  sailed  in  and  cut  her  out  V 
Now,  she's  taken  Jack  McBride, 

I  believe  it's  all  from  pique — 
Threw  him  over  once,  you  know — 

Hates  me  so  she'll  scarcely  speak. 
Oh,  yes  !     Grace  Church,  Brown,  and  that— 

Pa  won't  mind  expense  at  last 
I'll  be  off  his  hands  for  good  ; 

Cost  a  fortune  two  years  past. 
My  trousseau  shall  outdo  Maud's, 

I've  carle  blanche  from  Pa,  you  know- 
Mean  to  have  my  dress  from  Worth  ! 

Won't  she  be  just  HAVING  though  ! 

— Scribner's  Monthly  Magazine,  1874. 


GOOD-NATURED    SATIKE.  185 

Women  are  often  extremely  humorous  in  their  newspaper 
letters,  excelling  in  that  department.  As  critics  they  in- 
cline to  satire.  !No  one  who  read  them  at  the  time  will 
ever  forget  Mrs.  Runkle's  review  of  "  St.  Elmo,"  or  Gail 
Hamilton's  criticism  of  "  The  Story  of  Avis,"  while  Mrs. 
Rollins,  in  the  Critic,  often  uses  a  scimitar  instead  of  a 
quill,  though  a  smile  always  tempers  the  severity.  She 
thus  beheads  a  poetaster  who  tells  the  public  that  his  "  sol- 
emn song"  is 

"Attempt  ambitious,  with  a  ray  of  hope 
To  pierce  the  dark  abysms  of  thought,  to  guide 
Its  dim  ghosts  o'  er  the  towering  crags  of  Doubt 
Unto  the  land  where  Peace  and  Love  abide, 
Of  flowers  and  streams,  and  sun  and  stars." 

"  His  '  solemn  song '  is  certainly  very  solemn  for  a  song 
with  so  cheerful  a  purpose.  We  have  rarely  read,  indeed, 
a  book  with  so  large  a  proportion  of  unhappy  words  in  it. 
Frozen  shrouds,  souls  a-chill  with  agony,  things  wan  and 
gray,  icy  demons,  scourging  willow-branches,  snow-heaped 
mounds,  black  and  freezing  nights,  cups  of  sorrow  drained 
to  the  lees,  etc.,  are  presented  in  such  profusion  that  to 
struggle  through  the  '  dark  abyss '  in  search  of  the  '  ray 
of  hope '  is  much  like  taking  a  cup  of  poison  to  learn  the 
sweetness  of  its  antidote.  Mr.  -  —  in  one  of  his  stanzas 
invites  his  soul  to  '  come  and  walk  abroad  '  with  him.  If 
he  ever  found  it  possible  to  walk  abroad  without  his  soul, 
the  fact  would  have  been  worth  chronicling  ;  but  if  it  is 
true  that  he  only  desires  to  have  his  soul  with  him  occasion- 
ally, we  should  advise  him  to  walk  abroad  alone,  and  invite 
his  soul  to  sit  beside  him  in  the  hours  he  devotes  to  com- 
position." 


186  THE    WIT   OF   WOMEN. 

Then  humor  is  displayed  in  the  excellent  parodies  by 
women — as  Grace  Greenwood's  imitations  of  various  au- 
thors, written  in  her  young  days,  but  quite  equal  to  the 
"  Echo  Club"  of  Bayard  Taylor.  How  perfect  her  mimicry 
of  Mrs.  Sigourney  ! 

A  FRAGMENT. 

BY   L.    H.    8. 

How  hardly  doth  the  cold  and  careless  world 
Bequite  the  toil  divine  of  genius-souls, 
Their  wasting  cares  and  agonizing  throes  ! 

I  had  a  friend,  a  sweet  and  precious  friend, 
One  passing  rich  in  all  the  strange  and  rare, 
And  fearful  gifts  of  song. 

On  one  great  work, 

A  poem  in  twelve  cantos,  she  had  tailed 
From  early  girlhood,  e'en  till  she  became 
An  olden  maid. 

Worn  with  intensest  thought. 
She  sunk  at  last,  just  at  the  "  finis"  sunk  ! 
And  closed  her  eyes  forever  !     The  soul-gem 
Had  fretted  through  its  casket ! 

As  I  stood 

Beside  her  tomb,  I  made  a  solemn  vow 
To  take  in  charge  that  poor,  lone  orphan  work, 
And  edit  it ! 

My  publisher  I  sought, 

A  learned  man  and  good.     He  took  the  work, 
Head  here  and  there  a  line,  then  laid  it  down, 
And  said,  "  It  would  not  pay."     I  slowly  turned, 
And  went  my  way  with  troubled  brow,  "  but  more 
In  sorrow  than  in  anger." 

Phosbe  Gary's  parody  on  "  Maud  Muller"  I  never  fan- 
cied ;  it  seems  almost  wicked  to  burlesque  anything  so  per- 
fect. But  so  many  parodies  have  been  made  on  Kingsley's 


GOOD-NATURED   SATIRE.  187 

"  Three  Fishers"  that  now  I  can  enjoy  a  really  good  one, 
like  this  from  Miss  Lilian  Whiting,  of  the  Boston  Daily 
Traveller,  the  well-known  correspondent  of  various  "Western 
papers  : 

THE   THKEE  POETS. 

After  Kingsley. 

BY   T.TT.TAN   WHITING. 

Three  poets  went  sailing  down  Boston  streets, 

All  iiito  the  East  as  the  sun  went  down, 
Each  felt  that  the  editor  loved  him  best 

And  would  welcome  spring  poetry  in  Boston  town. 
For  poets  must  write  tho'  the  editors  frown, 
Their  aesthetic  natures  will  not  be  put  down, 
While  the  harbor  bar  is  moaning  ! 

Three  editors  climbed  to  the  highest  tower 

That  they  could  find  in  all  Boston  town, 
And  they  planned  to  conceal  themselves,  hour  after  hour, 

Till  the  sun  or  the  poets  had  both  gone  down. 
For  Spring  poets  must  write,  though  the  editors  rage, 
The  artistic  spirit  must  thus  be  engaged — 

Though  the  editors  all  were  groaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  Back  Bay  sand, 

Just  after  the  first  spring  sun  went  down, 
And  the  Press  sat  down  to  a  banquet  grand, 

In  honor  of  poets  no  more  in  the  town. 
For  poets  will  write  while  editors  sleep, 
Though  they've  nothing  to  earn  and  no  one  to  keep  ; 
And  the  harbor  bar  keeps  moaning. 

The  humor  of  women  is  constantly  seen  in  their  poems 
for  children,  such  as  "  The  Dead  Doll,"  by  Margaret 
Vandergrift,  and  the  "  Motherless  Turkeys,"  by  Marian 
Douglas.  Here  are  some  less  known  : 


188  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

BEDTIME. 

BY    NELLIE    K.    KELLOGG. 

'Twas  sunset-time,  when  grandma  called 

To  lively  little  Fred  : 
"  Come,  dearie,  put  your  toys  away, 

It's  time  to  go  to  bed." 

But  Fred  demurred.     "  He  wasn't  tired, 

He  didn't  think  'twas  right 
That  he  should  go  so  early,  when 

Some  folks  sat  up  all  night." 

Then  grandma  said,  in  pleading  tone, 

"  The  little  chickens  go 
To  bed  at  sunset  ev'ry  night, 

All  summer  long,  you  know." 

Then  Freddie  laughed,  and  turned  to  her 

His  eyes  of  roguish  blue, 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  he  said  ;  "  but  then, 

Old  hen  goes  with  them,  too." 

— Good  Cheer. 

THE  KOBIN  AND  THE  CHICKEN. 

BY   GRACE   F.    COOLIDGE. 

A  plump  little  robin  flew  down  from  a  tree, 
To  hunt  for  a  worm,  which  he  happened  to  see  ; 
A  frisky  young  chicken  came  scampering  by, 
And  gazed  at  the  robin  with  wondering  eye. 

Said  the  chick,  "  What  a  queer-looking  chicken  is  that ! 
Its  wings  are  so  long  and  its  body  so  fat !" 
While  the  robin  remarked,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  : 
"  Dear  me  !  an  exceedingly  strange-looking  bird  !" 

"  Can  you  sing  ?"  robin  asked,  and  the  chicken  said  "  No  ;" 
But  asked  in  its  turn  if  the  robin  could  crow. 
So  the  bird  sought  a  tree  and  the  chicken  a  wall, 
And  each  thought  the  other  knew  nothing  at  all. 

—  Sf.  Nicholas. 


GOOD-NATUKED    SATIRE.  189 

Harriette  "W".  Lotlirop,  wife  of  the  popular  publisher — 
better  known  by  her  pen  name  of  "  Margaret  Sidney" — has 
done  much  in  a  humorous  way  to  amuse  and  instruct  little 
folks.  She  has  much  quiet  humor. 

WHY  POLLY  DOESN'T  LOVE  CAKE! 

BY   MARGARET   SIDNEY. 

They  all  said  "  No  !" 

As  they  stood  in  a  row, 
The  poodle,  and  the  parrot,  and  the  little  yellow  cat, 

And  they  looked  very  solemn, 

This  straight,  indignant  column, 
And  rolled  their  eyes,  and  shook  their  heads,  a-standing  on  the  mat. 

Then  I  took  a  goodly  stick, 

Very  short  and  very  thick, 
And  I  said,  "  Dear  friends,  you  really  now  shall  rue  it, 

For  one  of  you  did  take 

That  bit  of  wedding-cake, 
And  so  I'm  going  to  whip  you  all.     I  honestly  will  do  it." 

Then  Polly  raised  her  claw  ! 

"  I  never,  never  saw 
That  stuff.     I'd  rather  have  a  cracker, 

And  so  it  would  be  folly," 

Said  this  naughty,  naughty  Polly, 
"  To  punish  me  ;  but  Pussy,  you  can  whack  her." 

The  cat  rolled  up  her  eyes 

In  innocent  surprise, 
And  waved  each  trembling  whisker  end. 

"  A  crumb  I  have  not  taken, 

But  Bose  ought  to  be  shaken. 
And  then,  perhaps,  his  thieving,  awful  ways  he'll  mend." 

"I'll  begin  right  here 
With  you,  Polly,  dear," 
And  my  stick  I  raised  with  righteous  good  intent. 


190  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  and  "  Oh,  dear  !" 
The  groans  that  tilled  my  ear. 
As  over  head  and  heels  the  frightened  column  -went ! 

The  cat  flew  out  of  window, 

The  dog  flew  under  bed, 
And  Polly  flapped  and  beat  the  air, 

Then  settled  on  my  head  ; 
When  underneath  her  wing, 

From  feathered  corner  deep, 
A  bit  of  wedding-cake  fell  down, 

That  made  poor  Polly  weep. 

The  cat  raced  off  to  cat-land,  and  was  never  seen  again, 

And  the  dog  sneaked  out  beneath  the  bed  to  scud  with  might  and  main  ; 

While  Polly  sits  upon  her  roost,  and  rolls  her  eyes  in  fear, 

And  when  she  sees  a  bit  of  cake,  she  always  says,  "  Oh,  dear  !" 


KITTEN   TACTICS. 

BY   ADELAIDE    CILLEY    WALDRON. 

Four  little  kittens  in  a  heap, 
One  wide  awake  and  three  asleep. 
Open-eyes  crowded,  pushed  the  rest  over, 
While  the  gray  mother-cat  went  playing  rover. 

Three  little  kittens  stretched  and  mewed  ; 

Cried  out,  "  Open-eyes,  you're  too  rude  !" 
Open-eyes,  winking,  purred  so  demurely, 
All  the  rest  stared  at  him,  thinking  "  surely 

We  were  the  ones  that  were  so  rude, 

We  were  the  ones  that  cried  and  mewed  ; 

Let  us  lie  here  like  good  little  kittens  ; 

We  cannot  sleep,  so  we'll  wash  our  mittens." 

Four  little  kittens,  very  sleek, 
Purred  so  demurely,  looked  so  meek, 
When  the  gray  mother  came  home  from  roving — 
"  What  good  kittens  !"  said  she  ;  "  and  how  loving  !' 


GOOD-NATURED  'SATIRE.  191 

BOTH   SIDES. 

BY   GAIL   HAMTLTON. 

"  Kitty,  Kitty,  you  mischievous  elf, 

What  have  you,  pray,  to  say  for  yourself?" 

But  Kitty  was  now 

Asleep  on  the  mow, 

And  only  drawled  dreamily,  "  Ma-e-ow  !" 

"  Kitty,  Kitty,  come  here  to  me, — 
The  naughtiest  Kitty  I  ever  did  see  ! 
I  know  very  well  what  you've  been  about ; 
Don't  try  to  conceal  it,  murder  will  out. 
Why  do  you  lie  so  lazily  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  a  breakfast  rare  !" 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  hunt  for  a  mouse  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  fit  to  eat  in  the  house." 

"  Dear  me  !  Miss  Kitty, 

This  i<!  a  pity  ; 

But  I  guess  the  cause  of  your  change  of  ditty. 
What  has  become  of  the  beautiful  thrush 
That  built  her  nest  in  the  heap  of  brush  ? 
A  brace  of  young  robins  as  good  as  the  best ; 
A  round  little,  bi-own  little,  snug  little  nest ; 
Four  little  eggs  all  green  and  gay, 
Four  little  birds  all  bare  and  gray, 
And  Papa  Robin  went  foraging  round, 
Aloft  on  the  trees,  and  alight  on  the  ground. 
North  wind  or  south  wind,  he  cared  not  a  groat, 
So  he  popped  a  fa^  worm  down  each  wide-open  throat ; 
And  Mamma  Robin  through  sun  and  storm 
Hugged  them  up  close,  and  kept  them  all  warm  ; 
And  me,  I  watched  the  dear  little  things 
Till  the  feathers  pricked  out  on  their  pretty  wings, 
And  their  eyes  peeped  up  o'er  the  rim  of  the  nest. 
Kitty,  Kitty,  you  know  the  rest. 


192  THE    WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

The  nest  is  empty,  and  silent  and  lone  ; 

Where  are  the  four  little  robins  gone  ? 

Oh,  puss,  you  have  done  a  cruel  deed  ! 

Your  eyes,  do  they  weep  ?  your  heart,  does  it  bleed  ? 

Do  you  not  feel  your  bold  cheeks  turning  pale  ? 

Not  you  !  you  are  chasing  your  wicked  tail. 

Or  you  just  cuddle  down  in  the  hay  and  purr, 

Curl  up  in  a  ball,  and  refuse  to  stir, 

But  you  need  not  try  to  look  good  and  wise  : 

I  see  little  robins,  old  puss,  in  your  eyes. 

And  this  morning,  just  as  the  clock  struck  four, 

There  was  some  one  opening  the  kitchen  door, 

And  caught  you  creeping  the  wood-pile  over, — 

Make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  Kitty  Clover  !" 

Then  Kitty  arose, 

Rubbed  up  her  nose, 
And  looked  very  much  as  if  coming  to  blows  ; 

Rounded  her  back, 

Leaped  from  the  stack, 

On  her  feet,  at  my  feet,  came  down  with  a  whack, 
Then,  fairly  awake,  she  stretched  out  her  paws, 
Smoothed  down  her  whiskers,  and  unsheathed  her  clam, 

Winked  her  green  eyes 

With  an  air  of  surprise, 
And  spoke  rather  plainly  for  one  of  her  size. 

"  Killed  a  few  robins  ;  well,  what  of  that? 
What's  virtue  in  man  can't  be  vice  in  a  cat. 
There's  a  thing  or  two  I  should  like  to  know,— 
Who  killed  the  chicken  a  week  ago, 
For  nothing  at  all  that  I  could  spy, 
But  to  make  an  overgrown  chickjsn-pie  ? 

'Twixt  you  and  me, 

'Tis  plain  to  see, 
The  odds  is,  you  like  fricassee, 

While  my  brave  maw 

Owns  no  such  law, 
Content  with  viands  a  la  raw. 


GOOD-NATURED    SATIRE.  193 

"  Who  killed  the  robins  ?    Oh,  yes  !  oh,  yes  I 
I  would  get  the  cat  now  into  a  mess  ! 

Who  was  it  put 

An  old  stocking-foot, 

Tied  up  with  strings 

And  such  shabby  things, 
On  to  the  end  of  a  sharp,  slender  pole, 
Dipped  it  in  oil  and  set  fire  to  the  whole, 
And  burnt  all  the  way  from  here  to  the  miller' • 
The  nests  of  the  sweet  young  caterpillars  ? 

Grilled  fowl,  indeed  ! 

Why,  as  I  read, 
You  had  not  even  the  plea  of  need  ; 

For  all  you  boast 

Such  wholesome  roast, 
I  saw  no  sign  at  tea  or  roast, 
Of  even  a  caterpillar's  ghost. 

"  Who  killed  the  robins  ?    Well,  I  should  think  ! 
Hadn't  somebody  better  wink 
At  my  peccadillos,  if  houses  of  glass 
Won't  do  to  throw  stones  from  at.  those  who  pass  ? 
I  had  four  little  kittens  a  month  ago — 
Black,  and  Malta,  and  white  as  snow  ; 
And  not  a  very  long  while  before 
I  could  have  shown  you  three  kittens  more. 
And  so  in  batches  of  fours  and  threes, 
Looking  back  as  long  as  you  please, 
You  would  find,  if  you  read  my  story  all, 
There  were  kittens  from  time  immemorial. 

"  But  what  am  I  now  ?     A  cat  bereft, 
Of  all  my  kittens,  but  one  is  left. 
I  make  no  charges,  but  this  I  ask, — 
What  made  such  a  splurge  in  the  waste-water  cask  ? 
You  are  quite  tender-hearted.     Oh,  not  a  doubt ! 
But  only  suppose  old  Black  Pond  could  speak  out. 
Oh,  bother  !  don't  mutter  excuses  to  me  : 
Quifacit per  alium facit per  se." 


194  THE    WIT   OF    WOMEN. 

"  Well,  Kitty,  I  think  full  enough  has  been  said, 
And  the  best  thing  for  you  is  go  straight  back  to  bed. 
A  very  fine  pass 
Things  have  come  to,  my  lass, 
If  men  must  be  meek 
While  pussy-cats  speak 
Great  moral  reflections  in  Latin  and  Greek  !" 

—  Our  Young  Fblks. 


CHAPTER  X. 

PARODIES REVIEWS CHILDREN'S    POEMS COMEDIES  BY  WOM- 
EN— A    DRAMATIC    TRIFLE A    STRING    OF   FIRECRACKERS. 

IT  is  surprising  that  we  have  so  few  comedies  from 
women.  Dr.  Doran  mentions  five  Englishwomen  who 
wrote  successful  comedies.  Of  these,  three  are  now  for- 
gotten ;  one,  Aphra  Behn,  is  remembered  only  to  be  de- 
spised for  her  vulgarity.  She  was  an  undoubted  wit,  and* 
was  never  dull,  but  so  wicked  and  coarse  that  she  forfeited 
all  right  to  fame. 

Susanna  Centlivre  left  nineteen  plays  full  of  vivacity  and 
fun  and  lively  incident.  The'  Bold  Stroke  for  a  Wife  is 
now  considered  her  best.  The  £  asset  Table  is  also  a 
superior  comedy,  especially  interesting  because  it  anticipates 
the  modern  blue-stocking  in  Valeria,  a  philosophical  gir^ 
who  supports  vivisection,  and  has  also  a  prophecy  of  exclu- 
sive colleges  for  women. 

There  is  nothing  worthy  of  quotation  in  any  of  these 
comedies.     Some  sentences  from  Mrs.  Centlivre' s  plays  are 
given  in  magazine  articles  to  prove  her  wit,  but  we  say  so.- 
much  brighter  things  in  these  days  that  they  must  be  con- 
sidered stale  platitudes,  as  : 

"  You  may  cheat  widows,  orphans,  and  tradesmen  with- 
out a  blush,  but  a  debt  of  honor,  sir,  must  be  paid." 

"'  Qmrrels.  like  mushrooms,  spring  up  in  a  moment." 


196  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

"  Woman  is  the  greatest  sovereign  power  in  the  world." 
Hans  Andersen  in  his  Autobiography  mentions  a  Madame 
von  Weissenthurn,  who  was  a  successful  actress  and  drama- 
tist. Her  comedies  are  published  in  fourteen  volumes.  In  our 
country  several  comedies  written  by  women,  but  published 
anonymously,  have  been  decided  hits.  Mrs.  Yerplanck's 
Sealed  Instructions  was  a  marked  success,  and  years  ago 
Fashion,  by  Anna  Cora  Mowatt,  had  a  remarkable  run. 
By  the  way,  those  roaring  farces,  Belles  of  the  Kitchen  and 
Fun  in  a  fog,  were  written  for  the  Yokes  family  by  an 
aunt  of  theirs.  And  I  must  not  forget  to  state  that  Gil- 
bert's Palace  of  Truth  was  cribbed  almost  bodily  from 
Madame  de  Genlis's  "  Tales  of  an  Old  Castle."  Mrs.  Julia 
"•  Schayer,  of  Washington,  has  given  us  a  domestic  drama  in 
one  act,  entitled  Struggling  Genius. 

STRUGGLING   GENIUS. 

Dramatis  Persons. 

MRS.  ANASTASIUS.  MR.  ANASTASIUS. 

GIRL  OF  TEN  YEARS.  GIRL  OF  EIGHT  YEARS. 

GIRL  OF  Two  YEARS.  INFANT  OF  THREE  MONTHS. 

ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.     NURSERY. 

\Tim£,  eight  o'1  clock  A.M.  In  the  background  nurse  male- 
ing  bed,  etc.  /  Girl  of  Two  amusing  herself  surrepti- 
tiously with  pins,  buttons,  scissors,  etc.  /  Girl  of  Fight 
practising  piano  in  adjoining  room  ;  Mrs.  A.,  in  fore- 
ground performing  toilet  of  infant.  Having  lain  awake 
half  the  preceding  night  wrestling  with  the  plot  of  a  new 


A    DRAMATIC    TRIFLE.  197 

novel  for  which  rival  publishers  are  waiting  with  out- 
stretched hands  (full  of  checks),  Mrs.  A.  believes  she  has 
hit  upon  an  effective  scene,  and  burns  to  commit  it  to 
paper.  Washes  infant  with  feverish  haste.~\ 

Mrs.  A.  (soliloquizing].  Let  me  see  !  How  was  it  ? 
Oh  !  "  Olga  raised  her  eyes  with  a  sweetly  serious  expres- 
sion. Harold  gazed  moodily  at  her  calm  face.  It  was  not 
the  expression  that  he  longed  to  see  there.  He  would  have 
preferred  to  see—  Good  gracious,  Maria  !  That  child's 
mouth  is  full  of  buttons  !  "  He  would  have  preferred — 
preferred — "  (Loudly.}  Leonora  !  That  F's  to  be 
sharped  !  There,  there,  mother's  sonny  boy  !  Did  mamma, 
drop  the  soap  into  his  mouth  instead  of  the  wash-bowl? 
There,  there!  (Sings.}  "There's  a  land  that  is  fairer 
than  this,"  etc.  [Infant  quiet. 

Mrs.  A.  (resuming).  "  He  would  have  preferred — pre- 
ferred—  Maria,  don't  you  see  that  child  has  got  the  scis- 
sors ?  "  He  would  have — "  There  now,  let  mamma  put 
on  its  little  socks.  Now  it's  all  dressed  so  nice  and  clean. 
Don'ty  ky  !  No,  don'ty  !  Leonora  !  Put  more  accent  on 
the  first  beat.  "  Harold  gazed  moodily  into —  His  bot- 
tle, Maria  !  Quick  !  He'll  scream  himself  into  fits  ! 

[Exit  nurse.      Baby  having  got  both  fists  into  his  mouth 
beguiles  himself  into  quiet. 

Mrs.  A.  Let  me  see  !  How  was  it  ?  Oh  !  "  Harold 
gazed  moodily  into  her  calm,  sweet  face.  It  was  not  the 
expression  he  would  have  liked  to  find  there.  He  would 
have  preferred — "  (Shriek  from  girl  of  two.)  Oh,  dear 
me  !  She  has  shut  her  darling  fingers  in  the  drawer  ! 


198  THE    WIT    OF    WOMKX. 

Come  to  mamma,  precious  love,  and  sit  on  mamma's  lap, 
and  we'll  sing  about  little  pussy. 

Enter  nurse  with  bottle.      Curtain  falls. 


SCENE  II.     STUDY. 

[Three  hours  later;  infant  and  Girl  of  Two  asleep  •  house 
in  order  ;  lunch  and  dinner  arranged  ;  buttons  sewed  on 
Girl  of  Eights  boots,  string  on  Girl  of  Ten's  hood,  and 
both  dispatched  to  school,  etc.  Enter  Mrs.  A.  Draws  a 
long  sigh  of  relief  and  seats  herself  at  desk.  Reads  a 
page  of  Dickens  and  a  poem  or  two  to  attune  herself  for 
work.  Seizes  pen,  scribbles  erratically  a  few  seconds  and 
begins  to  write. ,] 

Mrs.  A.  (after  some  moments).  I  think  that  is  good. 
Let  us  hear  how  it  reads.  (Reads  aloud.)  "  He  would 
have  preferred  to  find  more  passion  in  those  deep,  dark 
eyes.  Had  he  then  no  part  in  the  maiden  meditations  of 
this  fair,  innocent  girl — he  whom  proud  beauties  of  society 
vied  with  each  other  to  win  ?  He  could  not  guess.  A 
stray  breeze  laden  with  violet  and  hyacinth  perfume  stole  in 
at  the  open  window,  ruffling  the  soft  waves  of  auburn  hair 
which  shaded  her  alabaster  forehead."  It  seems  to  me  1 
have  read  something  similar  before,  but  it  is  good,  anyhow. 
"  Harold  could  not  endure  this  placid,  unruffled  calm.  His 
own  veins  were  full  of  molten  lava.  With  a  wild  and  pas- 
sionate cry  he — " 

Enter  cook  bearing  a  large,  dripping  piece  of  corned  beef. 
Cook.  Please,  Miss  Anastasy,  is  dis  de  kin'  of  a  piece  ye 


A    DRAMATIC    TRIFLE.  199 

done  wanted  ?     1  thought  I'd  save  ye  de  trouble  o'  comin' 
down. 

Mrs.  A.  (desperately).  It  is  ! 

[Exit  cook,  staring  wildly. 

Mrs.  A.  (resuming).  "  With  a  wild,  passionate  cry, 
he—" 

Re-enter  cook. 

Cook.  Ten  cents  for  de  boy  what  put  in  de  wood,  please, 
ma'am  ! 

[Mrs.  A.  gives  money ;  exit  cook.  Mrs.  A.,  sighing, 
takes  up  MS.  Clock  strikes  twelve  /  soon  after  the  lunch- 
hell  rings.} 

Voice  of  Girl  of  Ten,  calling  :  Mamma,  why  don't  you 
come  to  lunch  ? 

SCENE  III.     DINING-ROOM. 
Enter  Mrs.  A. 

Girl  of  Ten.  Oh,  what  a  mean  lunch  !  Kothing  but 
bread  arid  ham.  I  hate  bread  and  ham  !  All  the  girls  have 
jelly-cake.  Why  don't  we  have  jelly- cake  ?  We  used  to 
have  jelly-cake. 

Mrs.  A.  You  can  have  some  pennies  to  buy  ginger-snaps. 

Girl  of  Ten.  I  hate  ginger-snaps  !  When  are  you  going 
to  make  jelly-cake  ? 

Mrs.  A.  (sternly).  When  my  book  is  done. 

Girl  of  Ten  (with  inexpressible  meaning).'  Hm  ! 

Curtain  falls. 


200  THE   WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

SCENE  IY.     STUDY. 

Enter  Mrs.  A.     Children  still  asleep  •   girls  at   school; 
deck  again  cleared  for  action. 

Mrs.  A.  It  is  one  o'clock.     If  I  can  be  let  alone  until 
three  I  can  finish  that  last  chapter. 

[Takes  up  pen  /  lays  it  down  /  reads  a  poem  of  Mrs. 
Browning  to  take  the  taste  of  ham-sandwiches  out  of 
her  mouth,  then  resumes  pen,  and  writes  with  increasing 
interest  for  fifteen  minutes.  Everything  is  steeped  in 
quiet.  Suddenly  a  faint  murmur  of  voices  is  heard  •  it 
increases,  it  approaches,  mingled  witli  the  tread  of  many 
feet,  and  a  rumbliny  as  of  mighty  chariot-wheels.  It 
is  only  Barnum's  steam  orchestrion,  Barnuin's  steam 
chimes,  and  Barnurii's  steam  calliope,  followed  by  an 
array  of  ruff-scruff.  They  stop  exactly  opposite  the 
house.  The  orchestrion  blares,  the  chimes  ring  a  knell 
to  peace  and  harmony,  the  calliope  shrieks  to  heaven. 
The  infants  wake  and  shriek  likewise.  Exit  Mrs.  A. 
Curtain  falls.'] 


SCENE  V.     STUDY. 

Enter  Mrs.  A.  Peace  restored  •  children  happy  with 
nurse.  Seizes  pen  and  writes  rapidly.  Doorbell  rings, 
cook  announces  caller  ;  nobody  Mrs.  A.  wants  to  see,  but 
somebody  she  MUST  see.  Exit  Mrs.  A.  in  a  state  of  rigid 
despair. 


A   DRAMATIC   TRIFLE.  201 

SCENE  VI.     HALL. 

[  Visitor  gone  ;  Mrs.  A.  starts  for  study.     Enter  Girl  of 
Eight  followed  by  Girl  of  Ten.~\ 

•  Duett-mo. 

Girl  of  Ten.  Mamma,  please  give  me  my  music  lesson 
now,  so  I  can  go  and  skate  ;  and  then  won't  you  please 
make  some  jelly-cake  ?  And  see,  my  dress  is  torn,  and  my 
slate-frame  needs  covering. 

Girl  of  Eight.  Where  are  my  roller-skates  ?  Where  is 
the  strap  ?  Can  I  have  a  pickle  ?  Please  give  me  a  cent. 
A  girl  said  her  mother  wouldn't  let  her  wear  darned  stock- 
ings to  school.  I'm  ashamed  of  my  stockings.  You  might 
let  me  wear  my  new  ones. 

[Mrs.  A.  gives  music  lesson;  mends  dress;  covers  slate- 
frame  •  makes  jelly-cake  and  a  pudding  •  goes  to  nur- 
sery and  sends  nurse  down  to  finish  ironing. ,] 

SCENE  VII.     NURSERY. 

[Mrs.  A.  with  babies  on  her  lap.  Enter  husband  and 
father  with  hands  full  of  papers  and  general  air  of 
having  finished  his  day's  work.'] 

Mr.  A.  Well,  how  is  everything  ?  Children  all  right,  I 
see.  You  must  have  had  a  nice,  quiet  day.  Written  much  ? 

Mrs.  A.  (faintly}.  Not  very  much. 

Mr.  A.  (complacently}.  Oh,  well,  you  can't  force  these 
things.  It  will  be  all  right  in  time. 

Mrs.  A.  (in  a  burst  of  repressed  feeling).  We  need  the 
money  so  much,  Charles  ! 


202  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Mr.  A.  (with  an  air  of  offended  dignity).  Oh,  bother  ! 
You  are  not  expected  to  support  the  family. 

[Mrs.  A.,  thinking  of  that  dentist's  hill,  that  shoe  hill,  and 
the  summer  outfit  for  a  family  of  six,  says  nothing. 
Exit  Mr.  A.,  who  re-enters  a  moment  later. ~\ 

Mr.  A.  You — a — haven't  fixed  rny  coat,  I  see. 
Mrs.  A.  (with  a  guilty  start}.  I — I  forgot  it  ! 
Gribbering  fiend  Conscience.  Ha,  ha  !  Ho,  ho  ! 

Curtain  falls  amid  chorus  of  exulting  demons. 

I  have   reserved   for  the   close   numerous   instances  of 
woman's  facility  at  badinage  and  repartee.     It  is  there, 
after  all,  that  she  shines  perennial  and  pre-eminent.     You 
will  excuse  me  if  I  give  them  to  you  one  after  another 
without  comment,  like  a  closing  display  of  fireworks. 

And  first  let  me  quote  from  Mrs.  Rollins,  as  an  instance 
of  the  way  in  which  women  often  react  upon  each  other  in 
repartee,  a  little  conversation  which  it  was  once  her  priv- 
ilege to  overhear  : 

"Margaret.  I  wonder  you  never  have  been  married, 
Kate.  Of  course  you've  had  lots  of  chances.  Won't  you 
tell  us  how  many  ? 

II  Kate.  No,  indeed  !     I  could  not  so  cruelly  betray  my 
rejected  lovers. 

"Helen.  Of  course  you  wouldn't  tell  us  exactly  /  but 
would  you  mind  giving  it  to  us  in  round  numbers  ? 

"Kate.  Certainly  not ;  the  roundest  number  of  all  exactly 
expresses  the  chances  I  have  had. 

"Charlotte  (with  a  sigh).  Now  I  know  what  people  mean 
by  Kate's  circle  of  admirers  /' ' 


A    STRING    OF    FIRECRACKERS.  203 

A  lady  was  discussing  the  relative  merits  and  demerits  of 
the  two  sexes  with  a  gentleman  of  her  acquaintance.  After 
much  badinage  on  one  side  and  the  other,  he  said  :  "  Well, 
vou  never  yet  heard  of  casting  seven  devils  out  of  a  man. " 
"  Ko,"  was  the  quick  retort,  "  they've  got  'em  yet!" 

"  What  would  you  do  in  time  of  war  if  you  had  the 
suffrage  ?"  said  Horace  Greeley  to  Mrs.  Stanton. 

"  Just  what  you  have  done,  Mr.  Greeley,"  replied  the 
ready  lady  ;  "  stay  at  home  and  urge  others  to  go  and 
fight  !" 

It  was  Margaret  Fuller  who  worsted  Mrs.  Greeley  in  a 
verbal  encounter.  The  latter  had  a  decided  aversion  to  kid 
gloves,  and  on  meeting  Margaret  shrank  from  her  extended 
hand  with  a  shudder,  saying  :  "  Ugh  i  Skin  of  a  beast  ! 
skin  of  a  beast  !" 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Fuller,  in  surprise,  "what  do  you 
wear?" 

"Silk"  said  Mrs.  Greeley,  stretching  out  her  palm  with 
satisfaction. 

Miss  Fuller  just  touched  it,  saying,  with  a  disgusted  ex- 
pression, "  Ugh  !  entrails  of  a  worm  !  entrails  of  a  worm  !" 

Mademoiselle  de  Mars,  the  former  favorite  of  the  Theatre 
de  Frangais,  had  in  some  way  offended  the  Gardes  du 
Corps.  So  one  night  they  came  in  full  force  to  the  theatre 
and  tried  to  hiss  her  down. 

The  actress,  unabashed,  came  to  the  front  of  the  stage, 
and  alluding  to  the  fact  that  the  Gardes  du  Corps  never 
went  to  war,  said  :  "  What  has  Mars  to  do  with  the  Gardes 
du  Corps?" 


204  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

Madame  Louis  de  Segur  is  daughter  of  the  late  Casimii 
Perier,  who  was  Minister  of  the  Interior  during  Thiers's 
administration.  When  once  out  of  office,  but  still  an  influ- 
ential member  of  the  House,  he  once  tried  to  form  a  new 
Moderate  Republican  party,  meeting  with  but  little  success. 

Once  his  daughter,  who  was  sitting  in  the  gallery,  saw 
him  entering  the  House  all  alone. 

"  Here  comes  my  father  with  his  party,"  she  said. 

I  was  greatly  amused  at  the  quiet  reprimand  given  by  a 
literary  lady  of  Xew  York  to  a  stranger  at  her  receptions, 
who,  with  hands  crossed  complacently  under  his  coat-tails, 
was  critically  examining  the  various  treasures  in  her  room, 
humming  obtrusively  as  lie  passed  along. 

The  hostess  paused  near  him,  surveyed  him  critically,  and 
then  inquired,  in  a  gentle  tone  :  "  Do  you  play  also  ?" 

A  young  girl  being  asked  why  she  had  not  been  more 
frequently  to  Lenten  services,  excused  herself  in  this  fash- 
ion, severe,  but  truthful  :  "  Oh,  Dr.  -  —  is  on  such  inti- 
mate terms  with  the  Almighty  that  I  felt  de  trop." 

At  a  reception  in  Washington  this  spring  an  admirable 
answer  was  given  by  a  level-headed  woman — we  are  all 
proud  of  Miss  Cleveland — to  a  fine-looking  army  officer, 
who  has  been  doing  guard  duty  in  that  magnificent  city  for 
the  past  seventeen  years.  "  Pray,"  said  he,  "  what  do 
ladies  find  to  think  about  besides  dress  and  parties  ?" 

"  They  can  think  of  the  heroic  deeds  of  oar  modern  army 
officers,"  was  her  smiling  reply. 

Do  you  remember  Lydia  Maria  Child's  reply  to  her 
husband  when  he  wished  he  was  as  rich  as  Croesus  :  "  At 
any  rate,  you  are  King  of  Lydia ;"  and  Lucretia  Mott's 


A    STRING    OF    FIRECRACKERS.  205 

humorous  comment  when  she  entered  a  room  where  her 
husband  and  his  brother  Richard  were  sitting,  both  of  them 
remarkable  for  their  taciturnity  and  reticence  :  "I  thought 
you  must  both  be  here — it  was  so  still !" 

In  my  own  home  I  recall  a  sensible  old  maid  of  Scotch 
descent  with  her  cosey  cottage  and  the  dear  old-fashioned 
garden  where  she  loved  to  work.  Our  physician,  a  man  of 
infinite  humor,  who  honestly  admired  her  sterling  worth, 
and  was  attracted  by  her  individuality,  leaned  over  her 
fence  one  bright  spring  morning,  with  the  direct  question  : 
"  Miss  Sharp,  why  did  you  never  get  married  ?" 

She  looked  up  from  her  weeding,  rested  on  her  hoe- 
handle,  and  looking  steadily  at  his  hair,  which  was  of  a 
sandy  hue,  answered  :  "  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  Doctor. 
I  made  up  my  mind,  when  1  was  a  girl,  that,  come  what 
would,  I  would  never  marry  a  red-headed  man,  and  none 
but  men  with  red  hair  have  ever  offered  themselves." 

We  all  know  women  whose  capacity  for  monologue  ex- 
hausts all  around  them.  So  that  the  remark  will  be  appre- 
ciated of  a  lady  to  whom  I  said,  alluding  to  such  a  talker  : 
"  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  — —  lately  ?" 

"  Ko,  I  really  had  to  give  up  her  acquaintance  in  despair, 
for  I  had  been  trying  two  years  to  tell  her  something  in 
particular. ' ' 

A  lady  once  told  me  she  could  always  know  when  she  had 
taken  too  much  wine  at  dinner — her  husband's  jokes  began 
to  seem  funny  ! 

Lastly  and—finally,  tnere  is  a  reason  for  our  apparent 
lack  of  humor,  which  it  may  seem  ungracious  to  mention. 
Women  do  not  find  it  politic  to  cultivate  or  express  their 


20(3  THE    WIT    OF    WOMEN. 

wit.  No  man  likes  to  have  his  story  capped  by  a  better  and 
fresher  from  a  lady's  lips.  What  woman  does  not  risk 
being  called  sarcastic  arid  hateful  if  she  throws  back  the 
merry  dart,  or  indulges  in  a  little  sharp-shooting  ?  No,  no, 
it's  dangerous — if  not  fatal. 

"  Though  you're  bright,  and  though  you're  pretty, 
They'll  not  love  you  if  you're  witty." 

Madame  de  Stae'l  and  Madame  Recamier  are  good  illus- 
trations of  this  point.  The  former,  by  her  fearless  expres- 
sions of  wit,  exposed  herself  to  the  detestation  of  the  major- 
ity of  mankind.  "  She  has  shafts,"  said  Napoleon,  "  which 
would  hit  a  man  if  he  were  seated  on  a  rainbow." 

But  the  sweetly  fawning,  almost  servile  adulation  of  the 
listening  beauty  brought  her  a  corresponding  throng  of 
admirers.  It  sometimes  seems  that  what  is  pronounced  wit, 
if  uttered  by  a  distinguished  man,  would  be  considered 
commonplace  if  expressed  by  a  woman. 

Parker's  illustration  of  Choate's  rare  humor  never  struck 
rne  as  felicitous.  "  Thus,  a  friend  meeting  him  one  ten- 
degrees-below-zero  morning  in  the  winter,  said  :  '  How  cold 
it  is,  Mr.  Choate.'  '  Well,  it  is  not  absolutely  tropical,'  he 
replied,  with  a  most  mirthful  emphasis." 

And  do  you  recollect  the  only  time  that  Wordsworth  was 
really  witty  ?  He  told  the  story  himself  at  a  dinner. 
"  Gentlemen,  I  never  was  really  witty  but  once  in  my  life." 
Of  course  there  was  a  general  call  for  the  bright  but  solitary 
instance.  And  the  contemplative  bard  continued  :  "  Well, 
gentlemen,  I  was  standing  at  the  door  of  my  cottage  on 
Rydal  Mount,  one  fine  summer  morning,  and  a  laborer  said 
to  me  :  'Sir,  have  you  seen  my  wife  go  by  this  way  ? ' 


A    STRING    OF    FIRECRACKERS.  20 7 

And  I  replied  :  '  My  good  man,  I  did  not  know  until  this 
moment  that  yon  had  a  wife  ! ' 

He  paused  ;  the  company  waited  for  the  promised  witti- 
cism, but  discovering  that  he  had  finished,  burst  into  a 
long  and  hearty  roar,  which  the  old  gentleman  accepted  com- 
placently .as  a  tribute  to  his  brilliancy. 

The  wit  of  women  is  like  the  airy  froth  of  champagne, 
or  the  witching  iridescence  of  the  soap-bubble,  blown  for  a 
moment's  sport.  The  sparkle,  the  life,  the  .fascinating 
foam,  the  gay  tints  Vanish  with  the  occasion,  because  there 
is  no  listening  Boswell  with  unfailing  memory  and  capacious 
note-book  to  preserve  them. 

Then,  unlike  men,  women  do  not  write  out  the;r  im- 
promptus beforehand  and  carefully  hoard  them  for  the 
publisher — and  posterity  ! 

And  now,  dear  friends,  a  cordial  au  revoir. 

My  heartiest  thanks  to  the  women  who  have  so  generously 
allowed  me  to  ransack  their  treasuries,  filching  here  and 
there  as  I  chose,  always  modestly  declaiming  against  the 
existence  of  wit  in  what  they  had  written. 

To  various  publishers  "in  New  York  and  Boston,  who 
have  been  most  courteous  and  liberal,  credit  is  given  else- 
where. 

Touched  by  the  occasion,  I  "  drop  into"  doggerel  : 


pronounce  tl?is  book   not  funny, 
nd  wisi?  you  [?adn  t  spent  your  money, 
\jere  soon  will  be  a   aeneral   rumor 
l?at  you  re  no  judae  of  Wit  or   Humor. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

INTRODUCTION iii. 

CONTENTS v. 

DEDICATION vii. 

ARGUMENT  ix. 

PROEM.  .  . . . .    xi. 


CHAP.  PAGE. 

Alcott,  Louisa  :  "  Transcendental  Wild  Oats  " IV.  68 

American  Early  Writers  :  Some  of  tliem  who  were  thought 
Witty — Anne  Bradstreet ;  Mercy  Warren  ;  Tabitha  Ten- 

ney III.  4? 

Satirical  Poem,  by  Mercy  Warren III.  47 

Mrs.  Sigourney's  Johnsonese  Humor ;  Extracts  from  her 

Note-Book III.  48 

Miss  Sedgwick's  Witty  Imagination III.  49 

Mrs.  Caroline  Oilman's  humorous  Poem,"  Joshua's  Court- 
ship"   III.  49 

Andersen,  Hans,  Reference  to  Woman  Dramatist  in  his  Auto- 
biography   X.  196 

Aphorisms  by  the  Queen  of  Roumania  (Carmen  Sylva) I.  24 

"  Auction  Extraordinary" VIII.  176 

"  Aunty  Doleful's  Visit,"  by  M.  K.   D. — "  If  I  can't  do  any- 
thing else,  I  can  cheer  you  up  a  little  " VI.  118 

Barnum  and  Phrebe  Cary V.  102 

Bates,   Charlotte  Fiske :  "  Hat,  Ulster  and   All,"  Satirical 

Poem,  Quatrain  and  Epigram VIII.  175 

"  Beechers,"  t)ld  Family  Epigram  applied  to  the I.  22 

Behn,  Aphra  :  Wrote  Comedies  ;  her  unsavory  Wit X.  195 


210  INDEX. 

CHAP.      PAGE. 

Bellows,  Isabel  Frances  :  "  A  Fatal  Reputation"  (for  wit) — 

"  A  picnic,  that  most  ghastly  device  of  the  human  mind"  VII.  129 

Brenier,  Frederika,  her  genuine  Humor  ;  First  Quarrel  with 

her  "Bear" II.  41 

Brine,  Mary  D.  :  Poems,  "  Kiss  Pretty  Poll," VIII.  158 

"             "           "Thanksgiving  Day — Then  and  Now  "...  VIII.  159 

Burleigh,  Pun  on,  by  Queen  Elizabeth .' I.  16 

Butter,  Punning  Poem  on,  by  Caroline  B.  Le  Row I.  18 

Gary,  Phoebe,  "The  wittiest  woman  in  America":  Her 
quick  retorts  and  merry  repartees ;  her  parodies  and 

humorous  poems V.  101 

Champney,  Lizzie  W. :  "  An  Unruffled  Bosom  " — a  Tragical 

Tale  of  a  Negress  who  "  knew  Washington  " VIII.  171 

Clarke,  Lady,  and  her  Irish  Songs II.  44 

Cleveland's,  Elizabeth  Rose,  Pun I.  21 

Cleaveland's,  Mrs.,  "  No  Sects  in  Heaven  " IV.  69 

Clemmer,  Mary  :  Her  Life  of  Phoebe  Cary V.  102 

Comedies— Few  written  by  Women  ;  Five  Englishwomen 
produced  successful  ;  Susanna  Centlivre  wrote  nearly  a 
score — contain  some  wit,  but  old-fashioned;  Aphra  Behn 

wrote  several  comedie.-,  witty  but  coarse X.  195 

Cooke's,  Rose  Terry,  "  Knoware  " IV.  68 

"           "        "        "  Miss  Lucinda's  Pig" IV.  69 

Story  of  "  A  Gift  Horse  " IV.  71 

Coolidge,  Grace  F.  :  "  The  Robin  and  Chicken  " IX.  188 

Conclusion.     See  "  Fireworks." 

Cone,  Helen  Gray  :    Satirical  Poems — "  Cassandra  Brown  "  IX.  180 

"         "          "         "  The  Tender  Heart  " IX.  182 

Corbett,  E.  T. :  "  The  Inventor's  Wife,"  a  Poetical  Lament. .  VIII.  170 

Critic,  article  in,  on  "  Woman's  Sense  of  Humor" I.  13 

Cynicism  of  Frenchwomen I.  23 

Davidson,  Lucretia :  "  Auction  Extraordinary"  (Sale  of  Old 

Bachelors) VIII.  176 

Deffand,  Madame  du I.  23 

Diaz,  Mrs.  Abby  M.,  writer  of  the  famous  "  William  Henry 

Letters"..  IV.  69 


INDEX.  211 

CHAP.  PAGE- 

Dodge,  Mary  Mapes — "  inimitable  satirist  "  :  "  The  Insanity 

of  Cain" IV.  68 

"  "        "          "  Miss  Molony  on  the  Chinese  Ques- 

tion" (read  before  the  Prince  of 

Wales) IV.  69 

"  Dromy,"  Satirical  Notes  on  Derivation  of II.  35 

"Eliot's,  George,"  Humor;  Examples  from  "Adam  Bede  " 

and  "  Silas  Marner " II.  45 

Epigrams,  Makers  of I.  21 

"           by  Jane  Austen  :  on  the  Name  of  "  Wake'' I.  21 

"  "   Lady  Townsend  :  on  the  Herveys — applied  to 

the  Beech  era  ;  on  Wai  pole   I.  22 

"           "   Miss  Evans  :  on  a  Musical  Woman I.  22 

"            "    Hannah  More I.  22 

"            "   "Ouida" I.  22 

"           "   Miss  Phelps I.  29 

"            "   Mrs.  Rose  Terry  Cooke I.  30 

"            "   Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney I.  31 

"  "   Marguerite  de  Valois  ;   by  Madame  de  Lam- 

bert ;  by  Sophie  Aruould  ;  by  Madame  de 

Sevignfe I.  24 

"            "   Lady  Harriet  Ashburton I.  25 

"  "   Mrs.  Carlyle,  "herself  an  epigram  ;"  by  Han- 

nali  F.  Gould,  on  Caleb  Gushing I.  26 

««           "    "Gail  Hamilton" I.  27 

"   -        "   Kate  Field I.  27 

"          Mrs.  Whicher's  "  Widow  Bedott " I.  31 

"          Marietta  Holley's  "  Josiah  Allen's  Wife  " I.  31 

Eytinge,  Margaret :  "  Indignant  Polly  NVog" .  VIII.     157 

"  Fanny,  Aunt "  :  Jeu  d'espnt  on  Minerva I.  29 

"  Fanny  Fern's  "  Arithmetical  Mania III.  54 

' '  Fanny  Forrester's  "  Letter  to  N.  P.  Willis III.  52 

Ferrier's,  Mary,  Genial  Wit  ;  Scott's  Description  of  her ; 

her  "  Sensible  Woman,"  Satirical  II.  39 

"  Fireworks  "  :  Miscellaneous  Closing  Display  of  Wit: 

Mrs.Rollins'  illustration  of  woman's  quicknessat  repartee  X.  202 


212  INDEX. 

CHAP.      PAGE. 

Mrs.  Stanton's  Reply  to  Horace  Greeley  ;  Miss  Margaret 

Fuller  ;  Mademoiselle  Mars X.  203 

Madame   Louisa    Segur  ;  Miss    Cleveland  ;  Lydia  Maria 

Child X.  204 

Madame  de  Stael  ;  Madame  Recamier X,  2u6 

French  Women's  Cynicism I.  23 

"Gail  Hamilton" IV.  68 

Gapkell's,  Mrs.,  Humor II.  36 

"Gell  and  Gill" I.  21 

Genlis,  Madame  de X.  198 

Genuine  Fun — Sketches  from  C.  M.  Kirkland IV.  67 

Oilman,  Mrs.  Caroline  :  A  New  England  Ballad,  "Joshua's 

Courtship" III.  49 

Gordon,  Anna  A.  :  "  'Skeeters  have  the  Reputation" VIII.  160 

"  Grace  Greenwood's"  many  Puns I.  17 

"  "  "Mistress  O'Rafferty  on  the  Woman 

Question" VI.  108 

Greek  Lady's  Wit I.  15 

Hale,  Lucretia  P.  :  "  Peterkin  Letters  " IV.  69 

"  "  "  "  The  First  Needle,"  a  poetical  Bit  of 

History VIII.  150 

Hall,  Louisa:  "The  Indian  Agent" — "With  affectionate 

interest  he  looked  into  the  very  depths  of  their  pockets"  VI.  103 
"Hamilton,  Gail":  "Both  Sides,"  an  amusing  poetical 

Satire IX.  191 

Holley's,  Miss,  "  Samantha  " IV.  69 

Hudson's,  Mary  Clemmer,  Opinions  on  Wit ;  her  Anecdotes 

ofPhcebeCary V.  100 

Humor,  Miss  Jewett's I.  27 

Irish  Fun VI.  107 

Jewett,  Sarah  Orne :  "  The  Circus  at  Denby  " VII.     141 

Jones',  Amanda  T.,  Poem,  "Dochther  O'Flannigan  and  his 

Wondherful  Cures" VI.  109 

Kirkland,  Caroline  M.:  "Borrowing  Out  West" IV.  67 


INDEX. 

CHAP.  PAGE. 

Le  Row,  Caroline  B.:  Poetic  Pun  on  the  "  Butter  Woman  "  I.  18 
Lothrop,  Harriette  W.  (nom  de  plume  "  Margaret  Sidney  ") : 

"Why  Polly  Doesn't  Love  Cake" IX.  189 

"  Lover  and  Lever,"  Epigram  on,  by  C.  F.  Bates I.  28 

McDowell,  Mrs.,  "Sherwood   Bonner  :"     "Aunt   Anniky's 

Teeth" V.  85 

"  My  soul  and  body  is  a-yearnin'  fur  a  han'sum  chancy  set 

o'teef" V.  86 

Pen-Portrait  of  Dr.  A lonzo  Babb V.  87 

His  first  Tooth V.  89 

How  Anniky  Lost  her  "  Teef" V.  91 

Ned  Cuddy's  Letter V.  94 

Specimens  of  her  Wit :  The   Radical   Club — a  Satirical 

Poem V.  97 

McLean,  Miss  Sallie  :"  Cape  Cod  Folks  " IV.  69 

Mitford's,  Mary  Russell,  "Talking  Lady" II.  36 

Mohl.  Madame     I.  25 

Montagu's,  Lady,  Famous  Speech I.  14 

More's,  Hannah,  Contest  of  Wit  with  Johnson II.  34 

Morgan's,  Lady,  A  "  Fast  Horse  " I.  16 

"              "       Receptions II.  44 

Mott,  Lucretia  X.  204 

Moulton,  Louisa  Chandler:  "The  Jane  Moseley  was  a  Dis- 
appointment"   VII.  144 

Mowatt,  Anna  Cora  :  Her  Popular  Play  of  "  Fashion  ". . . .  X.  196 
Murf  ree,  Miss  (nom  de  plume  ' '  Charles  Egbert  Craddock  ") : 

"  A  Blacksmith  in  Love" VII.  135 

"  New  York  to  Newport  "—a  Trip  of  Trials VII.  144 

Old-fashioned  Wit — Examples:  Bon-mots  of  "Stella"  ;  Jane 

Taylor  ;  Miss  Burney  ;  Mrs.  Barbauld II.  321 

Hannah  More II.  33 

"  Ouida's "  Epigrams I.  22 

Parodies:   Phcebe   Gary's  on  "MaudMuller"  not  justifia- 
ble ;  Grace  Greenwood  on  Mrs.  Sigourney IX.  186 

Lilian  Whiting's  on  Kingsley's  "  Three  Fishers" IX.  187 

Perry,  Carlotta  :  "  A  Modern  Minerva  " ...  IX.  179- 


214  INDEX. 

CHAP.  PAGE. 

Pickering,  Julia  :  "The  Old-Time  Religion" — "I  allus  did 

dispise  dein  stuck-up  "Piscopalians" VI.  114 

Poems,  Laughable  and  Satirical : 

"  The  First  Needle,"  L.  P.  Hale VIII.  150 

"  The  Funny  Sto<-y,"J.  Pollard VIII.  152 

"  Wanted,  a  Minister,"  M.  E.  W.  Skeels VIII.  153 

"  The  Middy  of  1881,"  May  Croly  Roper VIII.  156 

"  Indignant  Polly  Wog,"  M.  Ey tinge VIII.  157 

"  Kiss  Pretty  Poll,"  M.  D.  Brine VIII.  158 

"  Thanksgiving  Day— Then  and  Now,"  M.   D.  Brine VIII.  159 

"  Concerning  Mosquitoes,"  A.  A.  Gordon VIII.  160 

"Tne  Stilts  of  Gold;"  "Just  So,"  M.  V.  Victor VIII.  161 

"The  Inventor's  Wife,"  E.  T.  Corbett VIII.  170 

"An  Unruffled  Bosom,"  L.  W.  Cliampney VIII.  171 

"  Hat,  Ulster  and  All,"  C.  F.  Bates  VIII.  175 

"  Auction  Extraordinary,"  L.  Davidson VIII.  176 

"  A  Sonnet,"  J.  Pollard VIII.  152 

Puns  :  Miss  Mary  Wads  worth's  ;  Louisa  Alcott's  ;  Grace 
Greenwood  prolific  in  ;  a  Mushroom  Pun  ;  a  Pillar-sham 

Pun I.  17 

Horseshoe  Pun , I.  18 

Miss  Cleveland's I.  21 

Queen  Elizabeth's I.  16 

"  Radical  Club,"  Satirical  Poem V.  97 

Rollins,  Mrs.  Alice  Wellington,  article  in  Critic I.  13 

VII.  122 

Rollins,  Mrs.  Ellen  H.  (nom  de  plume  "  E.  H.  Arr"),  pre- 
eminently gifted  as  a  humorist — Extracts  from  her 

"  Old-Time  Child  Life" VII.  124 

"'Effect  of  the  Comet" VII.  126 

' '  Doctrines  are  pizen  things" '. VII.  128 

Koper,  May  Croly  :  Poem VIII.  156 

Schayer,  Mrs.  Julia,  Author  of  "Struggling  Genius,"  an 
amusing  Domestic  Drama  ;  Extracts  from  the  Play, 

" Nursery,"  "  Study,"  and  "  Dining-Rooin"  Scenes  ...  X.  196 

"  Sherwood  Bonner."     See  McDowell,  Mrs. 


INDEX.  215 

CHAP.      PAGE. 

Sigourney,  Mrs.,  her  melancholy  Style IX.  186 

Skeels,  Mrs.  M.  E.  W.:  Satirical  Poem VIII.  153 

Thanksgiving  Growl,  A  (poetical). v  VI.  120 

Verplanck's,  Mrs.,  Comedy,  "  Sealed  Instructions" X.  196 

Victor,  Metta  Victoria  :  "  Miss  Sliinmins  Surprised  " IV.  81 

"           "            "         "  The  Stilts  of  Gold  "(a  reminiscence 
of  Hood's  "  Miss  Kilniansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg  ")..  VIII.  161' 
"Vokes   Family"   Farces  (written   by  an  aunt  of  the  per- 
formers), "  Belles  of  the  Kitchen  "  and  "  Fun  in  a  Fog  "  X.  196 

Waldron,  Adelaide  Cilley,  "  Kitten  Tactics  " IX.  190 

Walker's,  Mrs. ,  famous  Epigram I.  28 

Weissenthurn,  Madame  von  :  her  Comedies  fill  fourteen  vol- 
umes.   X.  196 

Whicher,  Mrs.,  "Widow  Bedott" IV.  68 

White's,  Richard  Grant.  Opinion  of  Woman's  Wit I.  13 

Whiting,  Miss  Lilian:  "The  Three  Poets" IX.  187 

Williams,  Alice:  "Plighted," IX.  183 

Wilson,  Arabella  :  "  O  Sextant  of  the  Meetinouse" VIII.     177 

Woman's  Wit,  Search  for,  Neglected  by  Men  I.  13 

Women  Poets  generally  Despondent I.  14 

"      Humorous  Newspaper  Correspondents  :  Mrs.  Runkle; 

Mrs.  Rollins  ;   Gail  Hamilton .' IX.  185 

Women  Inclined  to  Ridicule  Foibles  of  their  Sex IX.  186 

Woolson,   Constance  Fenimore  :  Her  "  Miss  Lois  "  (house- 
keeping, with  Chippewa  squaws  for  servants) VII.  139 


